


By Trial and Error

by green_ola



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV), wayhaught - Fandom
Genre: 1907 Europe, Class Difference, F/F, Mutual Pining, contemporary politics, female motorists, historical fiction sprinkled with gay romance, multi-cultural Paris, tw: feelings of inadequacy, tw: homophobic language, women pioneers in science, worker's rights movement, yes - you saw the rating right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-10-07 20:31:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17372789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_ola/pseuds/green_ola
Summary: Paris of the 1900s was a motley pot of ethnicities, scientific progress, and revolutionary ideas challenging the status quo of the European’s society and its political borders. It was also the city that serendipitously brought together Nicole Haught – a seemingly aloof heiress of a great European dynasty, and Waverly Earp – a destitute girl from London, dreaming of a career in the sciences.





	1. May, 1906

**Author's Note:**

> Another historical fiction piece because apparently this is what I do now? 
> 
> We visit Paris of 1907 – firstly, because it crawled with WLWs; secondly, because the contemporary politics and struggles of the time seem particularly relevant right now.
> 
> If you read my previous work, you know the drill. Most of the secondary characters are based on actual people and the events in the background are historical as well. I will include short snippets about the more interesting people and events in author notes at the end of each chapter.
> 
> New chapters will be posted on Thursdays.
> 
> Enjoy!

_ May, 1906 _

 

Spring took a long time arriving in Paris in 1906; Nicole thought that maybe Spring had taken a detour to visit her lover in Nice, leaving Parisians disgruntled and morose like some kind of common _Londoners_. There was no doubt in Nicole’s mind that Spring was a woman, with how capricious and erratic _she_ was.

Walking outside the enormous tents defining the arena, a toddler in her arms and a little girl clutching her left hand, Nicole looked longingly at the green meadows unfolding before her with lilies of the valley, forget-me-nots, and wild daffodils painting the landscape in a harmonious mixture of whites, blues, and yellows. She hasn’t had the opportunity nor the time to get out into the country since… since last summer – god, could it have been that long?! – and being confined in the city all these months made her crave the quiet and the greenery of the French countryside. With warmer weather finally gracing everyone with its presence, Nicole decided it was high time to make the effort to leave Paris for a few days.

“Pew pew, piff paff,” the toddler wiggling in her arms, making absurd noises, brought Nicole back to the two girls in her custody. Little Ève was remarkably energetic even for a two-year-old and – unlike her older sister and their mother – interested in all things artistic, colorful, or musical. Her short black hair was styled into a bowl-cut right above her ears, her inquisitive dark brown eyes – much like their father’s – were looking around at the cacophony of noises and the mélange of people.

Irène, the older of the two, nodded her head emphatically, “I liked the lady sharpshooters, too!”

 _Ohhhh,_ so maybe little Ève wasn’t making nonsensical noises after all.

“What did you like about them?” Nicole spurred the girl on. Irène, seven years older than Ève, was a spitting image of their mother; her curly chestnut-brown hair was combed in an untamable mess to just below her ears and her facial expression was typically serious, even when they were discussing exciting attractions the kids love. Half the time Nicole felt as if Irène was judging her in her mother’s stead, as the little girl’s most common mannerism was to pull her chin down and look at you from underneath her strong brows.

“The trajectory of their bullets and the accuracy of their shots was astounding. The number of forces acting on a bullet combined with the trajectory corrections while both the marksman and the target are in motion, turned it into a fascinating case study in Newtonian physic,” Irène responded to an enthusiastic, “pew, piff!” from her little sister.

With the girls’ mother’s entire life revolving around science, Nicole swore to instill in them the joys of visiting amusement parks and exhibition shows, luxuriating in fine cuisine, and enjoying simple pleasures like riding in a fast auto-mobile, especially now, after their father passed away. Based on Irène’s answer though, Nicole has failed miserably with the older sister already.

Perhaps there was still hope for Ève.

“What else did _you_ like, _ladybug_?”

“Big cow! Mooo!” Ève responded, clapping her tiny hands enthusiastically.

“Ah, the bison. Mighty beasts! Although I should think they sound more like, arrrghmooo,” half imitating a wolf’s howl and half a cow’s mooing, Nicole blew a raspberry on the little girl’s arm, earning a delighted squeal in return. 

“Do we have the bison in France, Aunt Nicole?” Irène interrupted their buffoonery. “I’ve never seen one before.”

“They used to be plentiful throughout Europe but the men hunted them nearly to extinction. There is a small population of bison that survived to this day in East Prussia – maybe your mother can take you girls to see them next time you’re in Poland,” Nicole knew there was a little chance of spotting a bison in the wild but both her and the girls’ mother made it a priority to ingrain in them the love for their lost motherland. Same as Nicole, both girls were born in France to a Polish mother and a French father but the faith and perseverance of the Polish diaspora made sure that its sons and daughters harbored love and devotion to the homeland lost to the Partitions over a century before.

They reached Nicole’s parked auto-mobile quickly, the machine not having to stand in a line of horse-drawn carriages waiting to pick up their owners. The auto-mobile was Nicole’s newest purchase, only a few months old, and her pride and joy – a 1906 Type Y vehicle, painted bright red that stood out on the Parisian streets and complimented Nicole’s red hair, drawing many curious looks. Ever since the Renault brothers begun the production of personal auto-mobiles, Nicole has been their biggest fan.

“No roof,” came Ève’s request and although Nicole was keenly aware of their mother’s stipulation that she never drive with the roof down with the girls inside, she was also quite incapable of denying them anything. Nicole deposited Ève on the front bench, next to the steering wheel, and walked Irène around the auto-mobile to open the passenger door for her.

She unfastened the roof on each side, much to Ève’s delight, and folded it all the way to the back of the vehicle, “All right, but you know the rules. Stay seated on the front bench and no jumping around, yes?”

Both girls nodded earnestly and solemnly, although Ève’s eyes were shining with mischief.

Pulling her tweed flat cap more securely over her head as not to lose it to the wind while driving, Nicole skillfully maneuvered between the pedestrians and horse cars, driving away from the arena. Once she reached a relatively straight stretch of the road leading from the outskirts of the city to Paris, Nicole pressed the gas pedal down and upshifted, reaching 40 km/hr. She knew her new Type Y could reach staggering speeds of over 60 km/hr – she _knew_ because she’s already pushed it to its limits within her first week with it – yet 40 km/hr was fast and exciting enough for her two younger passengers, while still remaining reasonably safe. 

The large chestnut trees, planted in equal intervals on each side of the road, rushed past them in a blur of white blooms and a pleasant buzz of _zap_ , _zap_ , _zap_. The wind blew all around them, tangling Irène’s already wild hair. Ève, as was her custom while driving with Nicole, extended both of her tiny arms towards the sky to feel the gush of air push them effortlessly every and each way.

Driving south through Montmartre had always been one of Nicole’s favorite approaches towards the city; the Eiffel Tower, constructed when she was just a kid, now seemed to stand protectively above the City of Light, both a beacon and an anchor for Nicole with all of its 7,300 tons of steely glory. Dropping into the city proper, Nicole downshifted and slowed down, mindful of other users of the busy, and often narrow, Parisian streets.

As they crossed the Seine over the Neuf Bridge to the Left Bank, Ève began to recognize her surroundings again. “No home yet,” came a quiet request, which Nicole was entirely prepared for.

“Of course, ladybug. How do you girls feel about going to the Luxembourg Gardens and getting some flavored ices?” The possibility of the girls ever saying no to sweets was less than zero and so Nicole confidently directed the car towards rue de Condé even before she heard the excited squeals from Ève and words of endorsement from Irène.

After a right hand turn onto rue de Vaugirard and a few short minutes of traveling through a narrow gorge of tall buildings on each side of the street, Nicole pulled up to her townhouse, located directly opposite the park. It was modest in comparison to the family mansion she had grown up in, yet as soon as she was legally allowed, she purchased this unassuming property for the views it offered as much as for the unpretentious and less snobby atmosphere of this neighborhood.

A short walk away, the Luxembourg Gardens were abuzz with Parisians basking in the first rays of sunshine; women dressed smartly in colorful skirts, with their elaborate hats and parasols protecting them from excess sun; men in drab black or dark gray suits, presenting such a dichotomy to the more cheerful attire of their female companions; and kids – kids running around in large rascal groups, laughing, screaming, and shrieking without a care in the world.

With flavored ices in hand – Ève chose the strawberry flavor, likely for its showy color, while Irène, quite predictably yet sensibly as always, went with plain cream – the sisters grabbed Nicole’s hands and the trio made their way towards the large pond in the center of the park. Irène liked watching the toy sailboats float and Nicole didn’t mind soaking up some long-awaited sunshine and enjoying the view of a late tulip bloom – not to mention the bloom of just as many beautiful women, flourishing after a long winter. And what a view that was!

Sounds of splashes from the pond brought Nicole’s attention back to the girls. Judging upon the wet sleeves of Irène’s dress as well as the bright red stains on Ève’s face, she decided the girls have had enough fun for one afternoon – not _too much_ , merely _enough_. 

Nicole walked the girls back to their home in the Latin Quarters, a short distance away from her own townhouse. She wasn’t in the slightest concerned about their disheveled appearance; with it being barely past 5 o’clock, chances of their mother being home from work were slim to none and their governess would have plenty of time to bathe them, change their clothes, and untangle their (but mostly Irène’s) hair.

Good thing Nicole didn’t bet on horseraces; as they entered the second-story apartment, Marie emerged from her study.

“Mama, mama!” Ève wiggled away from Nicole’s hold and ran towards her mother. Marie scooped the girl up and brought her into a close embrace, throwing an accusing look – with a solitary raised eyebrow – at Nicole. If she was hoping Marie would be distracted enough not to notice the sorry state of her children, she was mistaken yet again.

Trying to salvage the situation, Nicole encouraged the older sister, “Tell your mama about the toy sailboats we saw on the pond today, Irène. What was the name of that force you explained to me made them float?”

“It was buoyancy, Aunt Nicole.” Addressing her mother, Irène continued, unfortunately in the opposite direction than Nicole had intended, “We also saw the Wild West Show, mama. I want to be like Annie Oakley when I grow up.” She punctuated her statement with a firm, assured nod.

For being such an exceptionally intelligent child, Irène sure quickly forgot the conversation they had this morning about keeping their outing a secret. Either that or she enjoyed seeing Nicole squirm. All Nicole could do was send her friend the most charming smile in her arsenal and hope for the best.

“And who is this Annie Oakley?” Marie inquired, her thick Eastern European accent transforming the name into something resembling, “Ani Okli.”

“She’s an American sharpshooter, mama,” Irène responded, while Ève added her imitation of gunshot noises, “piff, paff!” 

“I see.”

“We saw her riding a horse and shooting at various moving targets with an astounding accuracy. It was quite an interesting study of Newtonian physics – I think you’d have enjoyed it.”

“The girls need strong female role models?” Nicole offered after being measured by Marie for far too long, the intonation of her voice raising in question involuntarily.

Putting Ève down, Marie sent her daughters away, “Go find Ms. Zosia and have her bathe you both.” Addressing Nicole, who was hoping to be off the hook and half ready to bolt out the door, she added, “Join me for a stirrup?”

“It’s called a night-cap in French, Marie.” Nicole feigned exasperation at her friend. Marie’s habit of using Polish idioms translated verbatim into French or English was looked upon with fondness by those closest to her but often caused confusion and misunderstandings.

Marie just waved her off dismissively and started walking towards her sitting room. They shared a strange friendship, Marie and her – over a decade separated them in age; the Haughts came from old money, whereas the Curies had barely made ends meet in recent past; Nicole liked fast cars and beautiful women, while Marie was devoted to her scientific career and her recently deceased husband; even their common Polish roots were providing more of a conflict as of late, with Nicole voicing her support to the revolutionary actions, which were strongly opposed by a pragmatic Marie. Nicole’s mother, may she rest in peace, had been Marie’s close friend during their school years in Poland and they rekindled their friendship after Marie moved to France at the age of 24. After Nicole’s mother passed away five years ago, Marie had continued to pay Nicole visits, perhaps out of a sense of responsibility, perhaps out of habit.

Nicole followed Marie to the sitting room, yet the very nature of their unconventional friendship provoked – quite uncommon for Nicole – a sense of uncertainty and tentativeness. Was she in trouble for taking the girls to the Wild West Show? Or was this to be merely a pleasant conversation and a drink in a company of a good friend? Who knew? Certainly not Nicole as she warily took a seat on the edge of one of two old frayed yet exceptionally comfortable armchairs. 

Between pouring two sizeable servings of vodka-based lemon liquor, Marie handed her a official-looking letter. Scanning it quickly, Nicole got a gist of it, “Your application to the Cracow University was denied. Again.”

“Read it till the end,” Marie prompted, sitting down in an armchair next to Nicole and handing her a glass of liquor.

After a minute of scanning the page, Nicole felt her blood pressure raising, her cheeks undeniably turning red in indignation, “They’re not even hiding it this time! They’ve denied your application solely based on you being a woman! Have those fools not seen the fucking _Nobel_ _Prize_ listed in your accomplishments?” 

“Language, Nicole,” always proper, always polite, Marie chastised.

“Pardon my _French_ , Marie, but this is complete bullshit.” Nicole took a minute to collect herself, “I’m sorry. I know you were hoping to be able to move back to Poland and continue your career there, especially now with Pierre gone and the girls growing up so quickly.”

“Well, hope is the mother of fools and I cannot afford to appear a fool. Especially not now.” Marie took a deep breath and continued somberly, “I was offered Pierre’s position as the chair of the Physics Department at the Sorbonne today.”

Nicole was left speechless. 

“Wait. This is good news, right?! Why are you not excited?”

“The University of Paris does not have a single female professor – not _just_ the Physics Department, mind you, which denied me a position on multiple occasions, but the  _entire_ University. Now they want to give not just the professorship but the chairmanship to me, after Pierre’s gruesome death barely a month ago?” Marie shook her head sorrowfully, “I feel like it is charity, like they are offering the position to a poor widow, whereas they were really intending on having Pierre’s name attached to the new laboratory they are constructing.”

Nodding her head reflexively, Nicole forced herself to stop, “Does the means matter, Marie?”

Her friend looked at her, puzzled, “What do you mean, _means_?”

Nicole chuckled, “Does it matter how you arrive at something? I mean, yeah, accepting the position right now may feel cheap but imagine how much you’ll be able to accomplish once you’re _in_ there? Imagine how many misogynistic asses you’ll be able to kick daily just by simply giving lectures and presiding over an entire department.” That finally earned her an amused smile. “I bet there are some _wealthy donors_ out there who would gladly contribute scholarship funds to support a female-led laboratory,” Nicole smiled broadly.

Marie pondered it for a couple of minutes, as was her habit – her words were typically well thought out. “I suppose you are right. I could finally teach classes at the Sorbonne and with the free reign over the new laboratory that is nearly complete, I could create a world-class facility focusing solely on the outstanding research,” Marie lowered her voice nearly to a whisper, which she was also prone to doing when she appeared lost in thought and was simply saying things out loud. “I could dictate the new hires based purely on applicant’s qualifications, not their outwardly attributes.”

Certain she had given Marie enough of a push in the right direction, Nicole took a minute to really look at her friend. Her pinned-up hair, wiry and wild as it was, has lost a lot of its dark blonde pigmentation in the month since Pierre’s death. Other than her dark attire, which she preferred regardless, Marie showed no outwardly signs of grief; after Pierre was killed in a freak accident by a horse carriage, she’s thrown herself even more into her research.

“It is decided, then,” Marie announced. “I will accept the position.”

“Splendid! Cheers to that!” Nicole raised her glass. “Now that you’ll have that brand-new sparkly lab at the Sorbonne, what will you do with the dilapidated shed you and Pierre used for your research?”

“I am not sure yet… I will certainly need help moving some of the old equipment…”

“I’ll be more than happy to help,” Nicole offered immediately. “If you’re not going to use it, do you mind if I did?”

“What do you need a research facility for?”

Barking out a laughter, Nicole said, “Marie, that shed could barely qualify as a potato shack! But… uhm… I was just thinking I could use a shed, you know… for my auto-mobile?” _God, why was she tripping over her words?! Because that didn’t sound suspicious at all, Haught!_

“Ah, that horseless carriage of yours. I swear it is a devil’s machine!”

“Oh, come on, Marie! You discovered radioactivity – something nobody can see and I’m still not sure what it really does or means – yet you’re puzzled by a simple combustion engine?” Nicole laughed out loud, bewildered. “We should try to conquer that fear of yours and have you ride with me. Who knows, maybe we can even teach you how to _drive_ one.” 

“I appreciate your concerns but fiacres and omnibuses are plentiful in Paris as will be the subterranean Métropolitain trains, once they finish that never-ending construction,” Marie was quick to respond. After pondering for a minute longer, she added, “Well, all right. I suppose no harm will come from you tinkering on your newest toy in my shed. And by your _toy_ , I mean your horseless carriage – do not bring your lady friends over to impress them in my shed. I have enough rumors spread about me in the city to last me several lifetimes!” she acquiesced, teasing Nicole with a fond and only slightly exasperated expression on her face.

“Thank you, Marie,” Nicole responded with a beaming smile. 

“Now. Do not think you are off the hook. Tell me exactly what that Wild West Show was the girls were talking about and admit you drove them with the roof off. I will be untangling Irène’s hair all the way until tomorrow.”

“Oh… uhm…” with the most charming yet innocent smile Nicole could procure, she delved into the parts of the exhibition she though Marie would have appreciated herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though the aughts in Europe seem like ages away from the American Old West era, the Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show actually visited Paris in May, 1906. I decided to include Annie Oakley – an outstanding sharpshooter – here, as a nod to one of the readers who mentioned her in a comment to my previous fic. She did visit Paris with the show in 1889 but wasn’t touring with it any longer when the exhibition returned to the city in 1906.
> 
> Dr. Marie Skłodowska-Curie was perhaps the most iconic female scientist of all times. She was the first woman to win a Nobel Prize, the first person (and to this day the only woman ever) to win two Nobel Prizes, and the only person ever to win two prizes in different sciences. She was also the first woman to become a professor at the University of Paris.  
> Born under the Russian rule in the partitioned Poland, she studied at a clandestine university before she emigrated to France to further her education. She kept her maiden name, as well as her husband’s name, which was unheard of at the time. Her husband, Pierre, died in a freak accident, ran over by a horse carriage. Their older daughter, Irène, followed her parents’ steps and won a Nobel Prize in Chemistry in 1935. Their younger daughter, Ève, was a writer, journalist, and a pianist. She was the only one in the Curie family not to win a Nobel Prize, although her husband collected one on behalf of UNICEF. 
> 
> There is no evidence that Dr. Curie used Polish proverbs translated verbatim but the concept is highly entertaining to me, as foreign proverbs and phrases rarely make sense when translated into another language word-for-word. I will pepper them here and there, providing an explanation in the A/N if the meaning is unclear from context.
> 
> Here’s a picture of Dr. Curie with her daughters:  
> 


	2. November, 1906

_ November, 1906 _

Locking up the front door of the public house she worked at on Wednesdays and Saturdays, Waverly sighed heavily, exhausted beyond belief. She was glad to have been able to secure the Wednesday shifts, as the pub was exceedingly slow those nights, giving her the time to read up on the articles she was behind on. Nonetheless, she also worked 12-hour days, Sunday through Friday, at the clothing factory on Sutherland Avenue, and so Wednesdays were her double-shift days and those were the worst.

Waverly didn’t mind either one of her jobs – she made 5 shillings a week at the factory, mainly working as a runner between the stockroom and the workshop, only sometimes filling in and helping with little odds and ends, like sewing on buttons or cutting off threads. Plus, she typically brought in at least 1 extra shilling a week from the public house. 

Making sure the door was securely locked behind her, Waverly shot one last look at the sign above the awning – _The Warrington Hotel_ , it read. _Pshh, what a stupid name for a place that only offers ales and no rooms to rent._ The inside of the pub was posh though, attracting more refined clientele than many other local establishments. A grand, semi-circular mahogany bar, with an equally elaborate wooden ceiling fixture above it, took up at least a half of the space inside, with enough room left for only about ten little round tables on the floor. Burgundy wallpapers and maroon carpets complimented the mahogany wood finishes. She never had more than two tables to wait on, so she couldn’t really complain. Still, Wednesdays were the worst.

It rained all day today and Waverly was happy that at least it stopped before her shift ended. She bundled up in her two-sizes too large wool coat and stuck her hands as deep into her pockets as they’d go, because it was blimey cold, with the fog descending on the city like a thick blanket of cotton candy. Taking Edgware Road and walking through the posh neighborhood was the most prudent way home, yet Waverly directed her feet left from the Warrington Hotel towards Warwick Avenue – the proletarian district by the Paddington Canal was not the safest at night but this route shaved ten minutes off of her trek back home and it was worth feeling uncomfortable and speeding up her steps while passing the run-down workers’ tenements on Wednesday nights. She had to get up tomorrow morning at 4 o’clock to make it to the clothing factory by 5. Seeing as it was already after 11 at night, it didn’t leave her much time to sleep. Wednesdays were the worst.

The worst of the tenements behind her, Waverly passed by the docks and zigzagged through the wharves and warehouses to make the best of her shortcut. She was forced to remove one of her palms out of the warmth of her coat pockets to cover up her nose; the stench of the piles of cinders, manure, and all sorts of rubbish discarded by careless wharfingers – in places towering above the neighboring buildings – was somehow the worst on humid, foggy nights like tonight. 

Approaching St. Mary’s Hospital, Waverly finally relaxed a bit; she was almost home. Passing the Paddington Station on the right, she turned left on Norfolk Square, went past by a row of townhouses, and walked up to number 41; home. 

Home wasn't much these days – she was renting a tiny attic room that was drafty in the winter yet overheated too easily with its tin roof in the summer. The room came furnished with everything she could possibly need though – a bed with a metal frame and a thin mattress pad, a small rectangular wooden table that doubled as her desk, one wooden chair, a wash basin – for her personal hygiene as well as for laundering – and a clothes line spanning the length of the room. She even had her personal log burner, which she only used during the coldest nights of the year to save money on wood, but Waverly’s never before had things in her life and it was a luxury she enjoyed having.

Even though the wallpapers were peeling off the walls in some places and had hideous water stains in others, Waverly loved her little room. It was _hers_. After Waverly’s mama had up and left when she was six, both her older sisters had married and vanished without a trace, and her father had died in a work accident when she was 14, Waverly had been suddenly left an orphan in the hostile, gargantuan city of London. She had bounced between orphanages at first, then women’s shelters when she was older, yet she had still somehow managed to complete schooling and earned enough money to survive by working odd jobs. This is how Hertha Ayrton had found her and had seen something in her – enough of something special or worth salvaging – and had offered her a room in her attic and a chance to assist with her studies. Waverly paid only a shilling in rent per week, which she knew was at least a sixpence – at least! – less than she ought to be paying, yet Hertha insisted it was all she would accept.

Having barely enough energy to toe off her boots and shrug off her coat, leaving it in a damp pile on the floor to worry about in the morning, Waverly collapsed into bed, face first, and was out like a light within seconds.

Wednesdays. Were. The. Worst.

~ 

If Wednesdays were the worst, Saturdays certainly were Waverly’s favorite. On Saturdays, she didn’t work at the clothing factory and thus, had the whole day to assist Hertha in her lab downstairs. Hertha’s _laboratory_ was in fact nothing more but a study where she collected and tinkered with heaps and heaps of equipment. Short bookshelves circled the walls, yet you’d almost be tricked into thinking you’re in a proper English sitting room, what with numerous potted plants peppered about, beautiful paintings adoring the walls above the bookshelves, and every table surface in the room covered with a tasteful cloth.

They’ve been working on the electric arcs over the past several months – more specifically, the ungodly hissing noise they made. Some people used them to light the fire or turn the street lamps on and quite honestly, Waverly didn’t care all that much why they hissed. But Hertha cared and so they trudged on. Chemistry was more of Waverly’s forte; most of this year, spent on researching electrochemistry in general and electrodes in particular, absorbed her so entirely she nearly hadn’t noticed the passage of time.

Working alongside Hertha was such an overwhelming experience, even if her current hyperfixation was less than fascinating – and even quite boring – to Waverly. She was a brilliant, gutsy innovator, whose interests span from drafting to mathematics, from electrical engineering to physics. With numerous patents under Hertha’s belt, Waverly could only aspire to be half as creative and tenth as audacious as her mentor.

Setting up the equipment for the day’s testing, Waverly was lost in thought when a quiet greeting came behind her, “Shalom.”

Startled, Waverly accidentally closed the circuit she was holding in her hands, discharging an electric arc and frightening herself even further. “I swear you need to wear a bell, Hertha. I almost singed off my eyebrows!” 

“And  _I_ swear I already told you to be careful around live wires,” Hertha chastised and chuckled, only partially joking. She must have been as excited and energized this morning as Waverly was, judging upon her wild curly black hair that was even more messy and unruly than usual.

They worked in unison all morning, Waverly meticulously measuring distances between the wires and trying to narrow down the precise moment when the hissing started, while Hertha made rough sketches with overlaying electrical field forces.

Noticing the time, Hertha suggested they take a break for tea, earning – to Waverly’s mortification – an audible grumble from the girl’s stomach. They settled with tea and biscuits in two large armchairs upholstered with red fabric; Waverly’s thin frame sunk right into the cushions, swallowing her whole, and sending her mind back to the problem of the hissing electric arcs. 

“Are you ready for our trip next week, dear child?” Hertha brought her back from her pondering. 

“Huh?” Waverly was prone to daydreaming and getting lost in thought but she was certain she would have remembered that they’d made plans to go on a trip, seeing how she’s never even left London, not to mention been on a _trip_.

 “Ay-yay-yay, child. A few months back, I invited you to accompany me to my dear friend Marie’s first lecture in her capacity as the Chair of the Physics Department at the Sorbonne.” Hertha shook her head in exasperation. “I should have known you were too immersed in your electrochemical tests to pay me any attention, based on the lack of excitement I received upon my invitation.”

“Marie? As in Dr. Marie Curie?” Seeing Hertha’s nods, Waverly allowed the excitement to shine through, “I’m going to meet the legendary Dr. Marie Curie!? How should I prepare? What should I bring with us? Wait, when are we leaving? I have to talk to Shorty at the pub and get my shifts covered at the factory. Are we taking a steamer over the English Channel? I’ve never been on a boat before – what if I get sick?” All this and many more jumbled thoughts and questions bubbled up throughout the afternoon. They didn’t get anything else done that Saturday.

~

It wasn’t Waverly’s first time on the train – she would sometimes use the London Underground to commute around the city, especially with the Paddington Station located a mere couple minutes’ walk from her flat – and yet, she couldn’t hamper the exhilaration and anxiety coursing through her body as they boarded the train to the port city of Newhaven at the Victoria Station. She chatted Hertha’s ear off – it helped her calm down and occupy her mind with something until the train departed.

As they crossed the River Thames over an impressive four-arch rail bridge, Waverly found herself outside of the city for the first time in her life. The suburbs slowly gave way to sparse village buildings, fields, pastures, meadows, and finally, woods and forests. The ubiquitous presence of trees, the paradoxically claustrophobic sense of the open fields, and the maddeningly clean air curtailed her bubbly enthusiasm. 

Hertha noticed her distress – bugger all could pass this woman and her observant brain. “You know, it takes a lot of chutzpah to fight for what you want in life the way you have, dear child. I know that Marie will be as impressed with you as I am.”

“You… You think I am brave, Hertha? I was just losing my mind over the bloody _open space_ out there,” Waverly pointed vaguely outside the window and shook her head in defeat. “I can comprehend the intricacies of electrochemistry but a bit of unusual greenery and open space have me reeling.”

“There are things in life that startle us, dear child, and we each have peculiar anxieties to conquer. But I think your trepidations are not caused by the scenery but rather by the unknown and unchartered journey before you. Tell me, what excites you the most about meeting Marie?” Hertha’s change of subject was neither subtle nor deft but Waverly was grateful for it nonetheless.

“Obvious reasons, I suppose. The way she arrived at the discoveries of radium and polonium was brilliant and we owe the term radioactivity to her, after all. Above all, she’s the only woman to ever win the Nobel Prize… Are you good friends with Dr. Curie?”

Hertha nodded her head encouragingly and Waverly didn’t waste the opportunity to talk more about her idol, “Is it true that the president of the Swedish Academy quoted the Bible at the Nobel Prize awards ceremony and referred to her as her husband's ‘helpmeet’?”

“Ah, yes. Yes, it is true. Despiteful little man. There are many a scientist today who still believe that most of that work was completed by Pierre, may peace be upon him, which couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“How come people still believe it, then? It’s been years!” Waverly was taken aback and flabbergasted; she expected misogynistic attitudes towards women in science but denying someone the credit for their work, solely on the basis of their sex, seemed entirely… _un_ scientific and against all empirical evidence.

“You know, child, errors are notoriously hard to kill but an error that ascribes to a man what was actually the work of a woman has more lives than a cat,” Hertha supplied and _wasn’t that the truth_!? 

The conversation with Hertha, despite – or maybe because – of being so infuriating, helped taking Waverly’s mind off the unfamiliar landscape outside the window. That is, until they arrived at the Newhaven station and their train stopped immediately next to the largest steamer Waverly has ever seen. Two massive white funnel smokestacks towering over the ship were painted bright red at the very tips; its two tall masts were decorated with numerous colorful flags Waverly knew no meaning of, while the name painted in large white letters on the black hull read, “Arundel.” A person on board of the ship, likely a mate reading the steamer for the departure, looked to Waverly as small as a rat in the Paddington wharves. 

Before she knew it, a porter grabbed their luggage, helped them board the Arundel, and they were sailing off towards Dieppe, France, and mainland Europe.

~

For being constantly compared to one another, Paris – with its wide streets, bustling with vibrant life, and theaters, concert halls, and cafés on every corner – was such a different city from the grimy, industrialized London. And the motor-cars? Waverly has seen but a few of those on the streets of London but here, they seemed to dash about from every direction.

Thankfully, the city was not as overwhelming as the journey had been. As soon as her foot found purchase on the concrete pavement and she took a deep breath of the urban air, Waverly’s nerves and anxieties calmed down, replaced by an undercurrent of excitement. 

This morning, upon Hertha’s insistence, they had arrived at the Paris University at the crack of dawn. She had been right, of course, as hundreds of people – students, photographers, reporters, and even some well-known celebrities – lined up to see Dr. Curie’s first lecture. 

The talk itself had been mind-blowing and truly impactful – Waverly sincerely believed nobody else could have so succinctly and plainly summarized the discoveries of the past decade in the field of physics, from electricity through radiation to the building blocks of matter. Not even Hertha.

Waverly sat in a stunned silence, processing the complexities of the seemingly simple concepts Dr. Curie had discussed, when a gentle hand on her shoulder brought her back to reality. The lecture hall was already emptied and eerily quiet – Waverly and Hertha were the only people left inside.

“It’s time to go, dear child. Marie invited us over for lunch at her flat and it’s a ten-minute walk.”

The little unassuming building was under siege, with multiple people leaving Dr. Curie’s residence, while others tried to enter it; it appeared that Waverly was not the only one who thought of the lecture as a success. As they were trying to wedge themselves through a narrow door into the flat, a rambunctious group flooded out, Waverly accidentally knocking a fashionably dressed man off his balance to a chorus of joyous laughter.

Mortified, Waverly quickly extended her hand to the stranger now fully seated on the concrete stoop. “I’m so sorry, sir. Let me help you up.”

That would have been that, if the stranger hadn’t looked at her from underneath their tweed flat cap to reveal a very feminine, very pretty face. Accepting the proffered hand, eyes locked with Waverly’s and a cocky grin on her face, the woman teased, with only a hint of a French accent, “It’s been a while since a pretty girl called me ‘sir’.”

The group of people surrounding them guffawed and cackled to an apparent delight of the stranger, whose smile expanded, revealing dimples in her cheeks.

_Who did she think she was? How dared she embarrass Waverly even more, when Waverly was doing a bloody great job with that all on her own, thank you very much!_

How was Waverly supposed to know that this stranger was a woman, seeing how she was dressed in a three-piece lounge suit, the collar of her white shirt starched and upstanding, and a narrow trendy jacket with high lapels? None of her attire was suitable for a woman, yet Waverly had to begrudgingly admit that it fit her exquisitely. The impeccable outfit made of expensive-looking fabrics stood in sharp contrast to Waverly’s worn-out, unremarkable dress.

Waverly snatched her hand away as soon as the woman was back on her feet. The stranger removed the flat cap from her head letting lose a gorgeous wave of red hair cut provocatively short to barely below her ears. Seeking eye contact with Waverly, her face softened, and it appeared she wanted to say something else when they got interrupted from within the flat, “Nicole, you better not be stirring any more ruckus out there!”

Dr. Marie Curie in all her glory stood not ten feet away from Waverly, chastising the stranger, whose wide smile returned in full force. The woman – _Nicole_ – took a few quick strides back inside and gathered Dr. Curie in a bear hug. She towered over the petite woman easily by eight or nine inches. Nicole whispered something into Dr. Curie’s ear that brought a genuine smile onto her face, but which Waverly didn’t quite catch.

Skipping the few steps that led from the flat two at a time, Nicole yelled, “Entire Paris will know of your accomplishments tonight Marie! We’ll drink the city dry and paint the night sky with your name!” She had the audacity to send Waverly one more dimpled grin and a wink, before the large group of rowdy people followed her outside.

 _A bloody wink!_ The nerve! The absolute gall!

Before Waverly could get any more irate at the impertinent and cheeky stranger, Hertha shepherded her inside. The next thing she knew, she was being introduced to Dr. Curie, the rude woman and her stupid, charming dimples quickly forgotten. 

“Shalom,” Waverly greeted her idol who sent her a perplexed look in return but quickly proceeded to invite them inside.

She felt Hertha’s hand gently grabbing her elbow and steering her up the stairs into the flat. She whispered in Waverly’s ear, “Dear child, Marie is not Jewish. I know you weren’t trying to be a schmuck but that is yet another rumor that has been stubbornly circulated in France about Marie – in fact, I believe it is one of the reasons why her candidacy to the French Academy of Sciences wasn’t accepted, but I’m sure she’d deny it.”

_Could she have wedged that foot in her mouth any deeper today?!_

“Wait, why would a rumor about someone being Jewish be enough to exclude them from the French Academy of Sciences? You got admitted to the Institution of Electrical Engineers after all – as a Jew _and_ the first woman even,” Waverly whispered back incredulously.

“Oh, it didn’t help either that Marie was a woman, and not even a French woman at that. But let’s just say that the French nationalism rears a much uglier face than what we’re accustomed to in England,” Hertha continued in a low voice.

The two of them, alongside two other women and a man, were ushered by Dr. Curie to a small dining room, where the table was set with warm dishes. Waverly would have described the meal as a dinner more so than lunch but maybe that was the French way?

The conversation flowed freely, mostly focusing on Dr. Curie’s achievements, yet Waverly was too star-struck to contribute anything valuable. She remained quiet, silently observing the most acclaimed female scientist of their time and hoping she was inconspicuous enough and not entirely ill-mannered.

Meal completed, the other three people at the table whose names Waverly was too absorbed to recall, excused themselves, congratulating Dr. Curie yet again.

Left alone with Hertha and Waverly, Dr. Curie asked, “What was it you wanted to speak to me in private, Hertha?” 

“Ah, yes. Your last letter mentioned you were looking for a research assistant, seeing that the Sorbonne has finally provided you with a fully functioning laboratory. Have you found anyone yet?”

“No such luck. You know, I am really not trying to look for a hole in the whole but all the candidates I have spoken to so far were either too arrogant or not experienced at all.”

Did Dr. Curie just say she wasn’t looking for a _hole_ in the _hole_? It sure sounded like it to Waverly…

“Well then. I’d like to suggest Waverly, here, for your consideration.”

 _What?_ That was news to _her_. 

Dr. Curie’s attitude instantaneously changed from amicable and hospitable to professional and serious. “I see. What is your education and experience, Ms. Earp?” 

Waverly, addressed for the first time since they took their seats at the table, stammered inarticulately, “I… uhm… I’m… I mean, I took several science classes at the… at the University of London and I’ve been assisting Hertha – Dr. Ayrton, that is – for the past two years. And uhm… please, call me Waverly.”

Thankfully, Hertha stepped in, shaking her head in adoring exasperation, “You see, Marie, Waverly has been instrumental in my electrochemical research but the deeper we delve into the electrical engineering side of testing, the more I feel like I’m wasting her potential. She is a promising chemist with refreshing, bright ideas. If you’re looking for someone to not only assist with your tests or manage your laboratory, but someone who could truly supplement and supply meaningful contributions to your research, I believe you won’t find a better fit than Waverly Earp.”

 _Wow_. Just… _wow_. Waverly didn’t know Hertha felt that way – not about her potential nor about her wasting time on electrical engineering. Waverly was happy assisting Hertha in anything the woman deemed worthwhile; she truly recognized how lucky she had been to be given that opportunity, as the prospects for impoverished women in London were less than bright, especially if one wanted to focus their career in the sciences. It was difficult for Waverly to process and comprehend that _anyone_ would think she was worth something, that her ideas were more than just useless rubbish. It brought tears to her eyes to be so openly recognized and praised – and to Dr. Marie Curie, nonetheless!

Dr. Curie nodded solemnly, seemingly contemplating her decision. An uncomfortable silence enveloped the trio, causing Waverly to squirm in her chair, even though she tried her best not to appear too desperate. This was an entirely new development for her, yet Waverly could already see how spectacular it would be to work on chemical experiments again.

Hertha must have been planning this for a while and Waverly briefly wondered why she hadn’t shared this idea with her before today – it may have been to spare Waverly the anguish of overthinking it or perhaps Hertha was trying not to bring her hopes up in case it didn’t come to fruition.

“As the Chair of the Physics Department, it is my goal to bring more gender parity to the employment opportunities at the University of Paris. And such a strong recommendation from you, my dear friend, means a great deal,” Dr. Curie addressed Hertha before turning to Waverly, “The grants that I have to support my staff are limited and I can only offer you 40 francs a month to start.”

Waverly had no idea how much (or little) 40 francs was but she instantly nodded her head in assent. After all, she’d managed to support herself as a 15-year-old in London and Paris seemed like a city of many more employment opportunities.

“I already started to cautiously prepare for such an outcome, dear child.” Hertha grabbed her hand under the table in support. “I’ve spoken to my husband’s colleague from the club – Mr. Robert Svane – who owns townhouses in London, Warsaw, Stockholm, as well as Paris, and just so happens to be looking for a laundry maid for his residence here. It won’t pay a lot but should be enough to supplement the wage Marie can offer you through her grant.”

“Oh no, it’s fantastic, Hertha! I uhm… I don’t know what to say. It’s all happening so quickly but I am so very grateful that you thought of me.” Waverly’s eyes welled up with tears, her hands shaking with anxiety and exhilaration. “And Dr. Curie… There are no words to describe how humbled I am to be given this opportunity. I will not disappoint you. I promise… I know I must look like a hysterical disaster right now but I swear I’m not always like this,” she chuckled through tears. “It’s just that this is a dream come true for me and I am overwhelmed by excitement.”

“Do not apologize for your enthusiasm, Waverly. I am among those who think that science has great beauty. A scientist in her laboratory is not only a technician: she is also a child placed before natural phenomena which impress her like a fairy tale.” Dr. Curie smiled warmly down the table at Waverly. “My new grant cycle starts in January – can you be ready by then?”

Waverly looked to Hertha for guidance and support, and upon receiving a nod in affirmation, she simply responded with a, “yes,” in fears of devolving into a babbling idiot should she say anything more.

“I’ll drink to that,” Hertha hollered good-naturedly, raising her wine glass in a toast. “L’chaim!”

Dr. Curie followed her lead; that pleasant, encouraging smile still on her face, “Na zdrovie!”

Waverly’s brain, already dumbfounded by the unexpected turn of events, had a hard time following the multi-lingual cheers and so – instead of selecting the obvious choice of responding in English – it led her to answer in Spanish out of all the options, “Salud?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hertha Ayrton was a brilliant British engineer, mathematician, physicist, and an inventor. Born to a Polish Jewish immigrant from Tsarist Poland, who barely made ends meet as a watchmaker, Hertha was lucky to get an education thanks to meeting a co-founder of Cambridge's Girton College (Barbara Bodichon) through her involvement with the women's suffrage movement. Since Cambridge didn’t grant full degrees to women until 1948, she was forced to pass an external examination at the University of London, which awarded her a Bachelor of Science degree.  
> Her work on electric arcs gained her so much recognition that the Institution of Electrical Engineers invited her to read a paper in 1899, the first ever read by a woman. She became the first female member of IEE.  
> One of her most well-known invention is a caliper but all-in-all Hertha registered 26 patents - 5 on mathematical dividers, 13 on arc lamps and electrodes, the rest on the propulsion of air.
> 
> It is true that during the Nobel Prize ceremony the president of the Swedish Academy referred to Marie Curie as her husband’s helpmeet, insinuating that Pierre was really the one who did the majority of the work. Learning of that, Hertha, who was Marie’s friend, said, “Errors are notoriously hard to kill but an error that ascribes to a man what was actually the work of a woman has more lives than a cat.”
> 
> The first lecture by Dr. Curie at the University of Paris happened on November 5, 1906, and it really gathered a huge crowd. She was the first female professor at the Sorbonne after all, and I guess people were interested in seeing that curiosity.
> 
> Oh, and Dr. Curie really was rather short, although you wouldn't be able to tell from her pictures. She was about 5'1" (154cm).
> 
> Places in London that you can still visit today:  
> 41 Norfolk Square – a townhouse where Hertha lived.  
> The Warrington Hotel – still a pub with a Victorian décor but also a hotel now.  
> Paddington Canal – looks (and smells) much different now, without the industry and the filthy wharves of the early 20th century London.  
> Paddington Station – London Underground and rail station.
> 
> “To look for a hole in the whole” – Polish idiom. To be nitpicky.
> 
> Here’s Hertha in her “lab”:  
> 


	3. January, 1907

_ January, 1907 _

Her heart beating rapidly, adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream with every turn and curve of the road, Nicole craned her neck to see her racing companions trailing at least 50 meters behind her. Nicole’s auto-mobile whirred pleasantly, the engine revving occasionally, as if it was purring in contentment at leading the pack.

She whooped in joy at having finally outcompeted the two most renowned female motorists in Europe yet her jubilation was short-lived, as first, her tweed flat cap went flying off her head, and then, her Type Y got passed by Hélène’s Franklin Model A.

 _Where did Hélène even come from?_ Nicole could have sworn that she had been trailing a significant distance behind her auto-mobile not a minute ago! 

And her favorite flat cap! Nicole loved that thing, loved how worn-in it was, how it fit her head flawlessly, how it complimented her red hair perfectly. She’s had that cap for over five years now, _merde alors_! But the time for mourning would have to be postponed, as they were fast approaching the final stretch of the 50 km road from Meaux to Saint Denis – the road the three of them chose to race on, on this beautiful January afternoon. 

Finishing behind Hélène was not a disgrace – she was, after all, the first woman ever to compete in an international motor race, even if it was nearly a decade ago. Nicole was hoping to at least arrive at the finish line before Camille though. It wasn’t that Camille was a much less acclaimed motorist than Hélène, what with being the _second_ woman ever to compete in an international race and the _only_ woman admitted to the Automobile Club de France so far. It was rather that Nicole liked her chances lately, with Camille’s interest in racing wading, replaced by one of her many other sport-hobbies, hobbies Nicole could barely keep a track of – when it wasn’t fencing, parachuting, or horse riding, it was skiing, tobogganing, and pistol shooting.

Nicole lost her concentration momentarily, thinking fondly of her friend’s diverse passions, and it was enough for Camille’s Peugeot to zap past her. After a sharp right turn, the Park of the Legion of Honor came into view, indicating the agreed-upon finish line. They parked in front of a beautifully designed cement arch denoting the entrance to the park – an arch that to Nicole resembled a smaller, less intricately sculptured Arc de Triomphe.

Sliding her driving goggles up her head, Hélène exited her auto-mobile with a cocky grin on her face. “Ever heard of Aesop’s fable about the tortoise and the hare, kid?”

Nicole barely caught the jibe over the rumble of her Renault, which was just now rolling to a stop. “Look who’s talking! Didn’t you enter the Paris-Amsterdam-Paris race under the pseudonym _Snail_?”

“That’s different, kid. That silly and completely unthreatening alias was one of the reasons they let me compete in the race before anyone caught onto me being a woman.”

“Hélène is right,” Camille chimed in, wrestling with her oversized – yet entirely fashionable – heavy driving coat that got entangled underneath her driver’s seat. “This was a valuable lesson in keeping one’s concentration until the finish line. Many a young motorist gets overconfident in the final stretch of the race and ultimately loses the laurels.”

“Laurels, my ass,” Nicole grumbled good-naturedly, deep down appreciating the opportunity to learn from these two extraordinary women she was lucky enough to call friends. 

Hélène sent her an amused smile, likely recognizing that Nicole was equally embarrassed and not at all sore for having lost, “All right, team. See those clouds rolling in from the south? We better fuel up and hit the road if we have any aspiration of getting back to the city before the storm.”

~

They pulled up next to Café de Flore just as it started to downpour. There was nothing special or lavish about this establishment – in fact, it was more on the ordinary side than either Camille or Hélène would typically be seen frequent – but its location was convenient for all three of them and it served the best baguettes with fromage on this side of the Seine. More often than not, Nicole would leave her car parked safely at home and join the other two at the café after a short 10-minute stroll; today, with the impeding storm, she parked behind Hélène on the side of Boulevard Saint-Germain and hoped her precious Type Y wouldn’t get damaged. 

That appeared to be the right decision, as an undefinable _wintery mix_ started coming down, forcing the trio to rush from their auto-mobiles into the safety of the café. Whatever this precipitation was – _sleet_ , she supposed – was the exact reason why Nicole barely ever spent the winters in the city. Her family’s beach house in Nice offered a warm reprieve during the coldest months, while their country chateau in the French Alps provided picturesque snowy views and plenty of opportunities to partake in winter sports. January in Paris was, simply put, miserable, with the temperatures hovering right above freezing – too cold to be comfortable, too warm to support anything other than snowy rain and unbearable humidity, permeating her clothes and skin all the way to the bones.

The inside of Café de Flore welcomed them with warmth; the soft yellow lights and red-velvety seating benches and chairs complimented the balmy indoor temperatures. They were immediately ushered to their preferred table in the far right corner of the little restaurant and ordered hot coffees and baguettes.

“Good thing we started as early as we did this morning. This is nasty, even for Paris,” Hélène remarked, nodding her head in the direction of the large window facing the street.

“Oh, yes. I don’t think my Peugeot would have made it – I never drive it in those conditions,” Camille agreed. 

“On my trip to New York City last October I saw a new invention that I think is absolutely brilliant and I hope our French auto-mobile makers take notice. You know how we often lose control of our vehicles, especially on the slick roads? Well, the Americans started putting those little grooves on their tires – they call them _treads_ , I believe – and it does wonders to the traction! I saw this one gentleman…”

Hélène’s story got interrupted by a chime of the entry door and a loud sigh that Camille let out, “For living in such a large city, we must be cursed to always run into him. You two better behave this time.” Nicole followed Camille’s line of sight to see Robert Svane standing by the entrance in an absurdly large fur coat, more suitable for a Russian countess inspecting her far east territories than for a Swedish financier in Paris.

“God, look at that poor creature next to him. So lost, so out-of-place – a perfect target for that bastard,” Hélène almost spit out.

Shaking her head and tsk-tsk’ing in disapproval, Camille admonished, “Now, now, Hélène, I told you to behave. The girl simply looks like one of his out-of-town domestic employees, maybe a cleaning-maid or a laundry-maid.” 

With a mirthless laugh, Hélène countered, “She’s a maid alright! He sure knows how to pick them – knows that no Parisian woman would put up with him and always seeks out those timid, provincial girls who prove to be much more _obedient_.”

Tuning out her friends’ bickering, Nicole transferred her attention to Robert’s companion. She had to admit that Hélène’s observation was spot on – the young woman seemed nervous and out-of-place; she was wringing a soaking wet scarf in her hands in an anxious gesture and looking around with large astonished eyes. She wore a long gray dress –plain, worn in, and entirely out of style. On second thought, Hélène seemed to have one thing wrong – the girl didn’t look provincial; something about her attire reminded Nicole of poor women she saw on the streets of London on her last trip to the British capital over three years ago.

Within a minute of walking through the door, Robert was barking orders at the staff and they were showed to a table on the opposite side of the café, providing Nicole with a perfect opportunity to continue her examination. He chose a seat next to the girl on the bench instead of sitting in the chair facing her, as would be more appropriate, causing her to look down at her hands still torturing the wet piece of fabric, seemingly abashed and disconcerted. Focusing on the young woman, Nicole nearly missed the moment when Robert noticed them across the room, his face contorting in a slow evil grin. _God, how she despised that man._

“Maybe we should go…”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Camille. We barely just got here, my coffee is still too hot to drink, and I am not giving up this heavenly fromage because a man of disputable morals decided to patronize the same establishment as us,” Hélène stopped Camille with a soft hand on her lap.

Nicole shrugged, “We can be civil. Just don’t pay him any heed.” Facing Hélène, she attempted to change the subject the best way she knew how – asking about her friend’s lover, “How’s Renée? I haven’t seen any new poetry books with her name lately.” 

“Oh, you know how Renée gets sometimes, especially when the weather is this rotten,” Hélène dismissed with a wave of her hand. “She’s been on knockout drops pretty consistently the past several weeks. I’m planning on taking her to my villa in Cannes soon – hopefully a bit of sunshine will cure her moods.”

“I do hope she gets better. The doctors are now saying that chloral hydrate absolutely destroys your digestive system,” Camille chimed in.

“Not to worry, dear friend. Those artist types feed off suffering and I suppose Renée hasn’t experienced _enough_ of it in the past few years of being with me. We were actually working on a new play together just last month before her relapse and I think we’ll finish it in no time in Cannes.”

“Don’t be callous. Renée is a lovely girl and I’m sure she’s not intentionally poisoning herself just to suffer.”

Nicole listened to the exchange with a rapt interest; Hélène’s affair with Renée was a bit of a sore topic between the friends. When it had first started over five years ago, Hélène got so absolutely immersed in it, so engrossed, that she abandoned her friends’ company for many months. Not even Nicole’s mother passing prompted her to reconnect or pay her respects. Since Marie Curie provided the support she needed in those difficult months, Nicole wasn’t particularly hurt by Hélène ill-timed absence; it was in fact Camille who took it more to heart and still to this day brought it up occasionally when the two were fighting. Nicole always suspected that Camille harbored somewhat confusing feelings for Hélène, even if she never showed interest in any other women. 

None of them noticed Robert Svane approaching their table. “Baroness van Zuylen, Madame du Gast,” he politely greeted Nicole’s companions with an exaggerated bow. His slight, almost inaudible Swedish accent, always sounded to Nicole more like a snake’s hissing. “Haught,” was all the acknowledgement Nicole was granted.

“Bobo,” Nicole responded in kind, using the childhood nickname he despised so much growing up. Their fathers moved in the same circles and the two of them were occasionally forced to interact as children, creating something akin to a healthy rivalry from an early age – healthy, that is, until Robert used someone Nicole loved to his advantage and turned into the unscrupulous, unethical businessman he was today. 

“Now, don’t be rude, Nicole. It’s _Monsieur_ Bobo,” Hélène faux-reprimanded her. “Or have you finally _bought_ a noble title with your dirty money?” Coming from a very affluent and old banking dynasty and holding a noble title through marriage, Hélène loved taking these petty jabs at the man who maybe was welcomed at the most sophisticated Parisian salons but his nouveau-riche mentality was undeniable. Marie Curie often said that even though Robert wore the most fashionable Italian leather shoes of the season, you could still see the straw poking out of them.

Robert snarled but didn’t rebut Hélène – he owed a healthy sum of money to her family’s banking institutions and was shrewd enough to never cross her; not explicitly, at least. He had no qualms antagonizing Nicole though, “You may like to know that I’ve recently returned from visiting my apartment in Warsaw. I must say that I admire what the Russians did with the place – you hardly ever hear Polish on the streets these days and all the citizens are very meek and compliant. Who knew all it would take to civilize these savages was an iron fist of a tsar.”

Nicole was out of her seat and leaning against the table in an instant. “Do not speak about Poland that way ever again,” she whispered angrily through gritted teeth. 

“What _Poland_? If my history lessons serve me right, Poland was wiped off the map over a century ago by her _benevolent_ neighbors,” his words spewed venom, yet Robert’s face was as calm and pleasant as if they were merely discussing the weather. He opened his arms, palms up, as if he really was confused.

Nicole took a step to the right to get from behind their table and was ready to punch this asshole in the face, when a noise of a glass shattering from across the room caused all eyes to turn to the young woman who came in with him – standing up now, she looked even more frightened than before.

“Baroness, Madame,” Robert nodded his head in acknowledgement, turned on his heel with a dramatic swish of his fur coat, and hastily retreated back to his table, leaving an agitated Nicole behind.

Plopping down on the bench ungracefully, Nicole rubbed her forehead. “ _Merde alors,_ I swear I will break his stupid nose one day,” she murmured quietly, hoping Camille wouldn’t hear her. In response, she received a vaguely supportive bump of a shoulder and a sly, lopsided grin from Hélène.

“Now that he got that out of his system, let’s go back to enjoying our evening, shall we?” Hélène proposed. “How are the preparations for the ballooning trip coming along, Camille? Last I heard, you were planning on doing that in February.”

“Oh, yes. I’m so excited. We were initially planning on flying from Paris to Leeds in Britain but recently, we’ve decided to change the route and land in Manchester instead. You see, the winds will be much more favorable and…” 

Even though Camille’s digression on ballooning and the importance of prevailing winds was interesting – it truly was! – Nicole’s focus drifted across the room yet again. Robert’s back was turned to her now – he sat facing his companion this time, which was clearly appreciated by the girl who relaxed moderately.

Nicole wanted to continue to throw the proverbial daggers at his back but something kept pulling her attention to the woman he was with. She was… _plain-looking_ would be the kindest way to put it. Sure, her features were agreeable but entirely ordinary – the tug that Nicole was experiencing was perplexing and muddled with anger she felt towards Robert. It almost seemed as if they had met before – Nicole could almost grasp with the tips of her fingers where she saw this woman before, could almost feel the weight of her hand in her own, could sense the overwhelming joy associated with that exact memory… She blinked and it was gone, the girl suddenly looking like any other destitute young woman seeking a better future on the Parisian streets.

“…cole, Nicole. Hey, kid!” Hélène’s elbow making an acquittance with her ribs broke Nicole from her ruminations.

“Huh?”

“Huh?... Nuh-uh, we’re not doing this again, kid. Wipe off the drool and stop ogling her. Must I remind you what happened the last time you fell for somebody associated with Svane?” 

What was Hélène even talking about?! She wasn’t _ogling_ anybody! Maybe just looking but definitely not ogling!

“I’m not ogling anybody!” Nicole was fast to defend herself. She was met by two unimpressed and skeptical expressions. 

Camille’s delicate hand landed on the table across from Nicole, seemingly trying to placate and sooth her. “Nicole, it is easy to desire that which is unavailable and unobtainable.” She stole a not-so-subtle glance at Hélène.“You are a thrill-seeker, same as us, and so it’s only in your nature to love the chase, to seek out those you cannot have.”

 _Pssh! What a load of horseshit._ She wasn’t _seeking_ that girl out – how could she? This was the first time she’s laid her eyes on her, never even had a conversation with her! What an absurd notion! She was merely trying to be vigilant and meticulously scrutinize a new person in Robert’s life – one could never be certain what machinations he would come up with and _who_ he would use to further his gains next. 

“She’s right, kid. Top it with your tumultuous past with Svane and you have yourself a recipe for disaster. Crème brûlée de la calamité, if you will,” Hélène chimed in cheekily.

Nicole didn’t know why but she felt like a schoolgirl, reprimanded by her favorite teachers for doing something entirely innocent. “Okay, okay. Whatever you thought you saw, it’s gone. Now, if you excuse me, I think it’s time for me to retire for the evening.” 

“We’ll walk with you. I need to check on Renée before it gets too late.” Both Hélène and Camille were out of their seats, putting their coats, driving gloves, and hats back on.

The unfortunate layout of the café dictated that they had to walk by Robert’s table to get to the door. Since she was seated the furthest from the door, Nicole let her two companions walk in front of her. They didn’t pay Robert any attention, immersed instead in the conversation about tire treads that got initially derailed by his appearance.

Nicole stayed a step behind, taking her time to appraise the woman in Robert’s company from this closer a distance. Curiously, she felt suddenly nervous and exposed – it must have been due to the lack of her favorite flat cap, Nicole rationalized.

The woman looked up from her coffee cup unexpectedly and met Nicole’s eyes for the first time that evening. There was something unspeakably beautiful about her eyes – their greenish depths held the purest form of happiness and glee, yet the brown speckles floating like satellites around her pupils seemed to harbor melancholy and insecurities.

Mesmerized, Nicole walked into a chair, causing it to topple over with a racket entirely inappropriate for the tranquil serenity of the café. The girl smiled bashfully – was it a hint of a blush Nicole detected painting her cheeks? – and looked back down at the coffee cup in her hands. A garçon rushed over to set the unlucky chair upright. Both of her friends looked back at the commotion from their position by the door; Camille sent her a solitary raised eyebrow, as if asking what was she doing, while Hélène just shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation.

Straightening her clothes and dusting invisible dirt off of her pants, Nicole walked past Robert’s table, catching the end of his whispered remark, “… and if I may, I would strongly advise you, Waverly, to stay clear of women _like that_ during your stay in Paris. That _unnatural_ , _bohemian_ lifestyle seems to have infected even the elites.” His grin was vile, while his tone feigned concern.

A second away from a scathing verbal retaliation, Nicole was stopped by Camille’s hand on her upper arm and by the look on Robert’s companion’s face – a look of revulsion and contempt that inexplicably pierced Nicole’s heart. She stormed outside with nothing more but perfunctory goodbyes for her friends.

The soft engine rumble of her Renault soothed Nicole’s nerves, as if it was trying to tell her it would always be there for her. Nicole took it for an hour-long ride around the city, instead of a 10-minute drive straight home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Café de Flore is still in Paris.
> 
> Camille du Gast was one of a trio of pioneering French female motoring celebrities. Besides driving, she was a balloonist, parachute jumper, fencer, tobogganist, skier, rifle and pistol shot, horse trainer, as well as a concert pianist and singer. She later became renowned for her extensive charity work as a president of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. She also provided health-care to disadvantaged women and children in Paris, and continued during the German occupation in World War II.
> 
> Baroness Hélène van Zuylen was a French socialite, author, a sporting figure, and a member of the prominent Rothschild banking family of France. Together with Camille du Gast she was one of a trio of French female motoring pioneers. She entered the 1898 Paris–Amsterdam–Paris Trail using the pseudonym Snail, thus becoming the first woman to compete in an international motor race. She was gay but we’ll delve deeper into her personal life a bit later in the story.
> 
> Here's a picture of Hélène in her motoring gear:  
> 


	4. February, 1907

_ February, 1907 _

Trying to fall asleep to a cacophony of drunks wailing outside her window like a pack of cats in heat, attempting to sing obscene songs but losing the melody and forgetting the lyrics every minute or so, Waverly examined the room she had been renting for the past month.

She had to admit that supporting herself in Paris proved to be a much more dauting prospect than she had expected. The rent seemed to be extraordinarily high – or maybe she just got spoiled by years of renting the room from Hertha for less than its true worth. She paid 35 francs a month now, which ate up the lion share of wages she made from the university.

Considering she needed a place to stay within a relatively close distance to the Sorbonne, she supposed she should have been more grateful to have found this room, regardless of all of its _flaws_. And boy, did it have flaws! It was located on rue de Venise, a little side-street on the Right Bank of the River Seine, although Waverly quietly thought that calling this narrow passage a _street_ was very generous of the Parisians – when she had stood in the middle of it and stretched out her arms, she was able to touch the houses on each side. Regardless of the time of the day, the cobble-stoned paving constantly smelled like urine. If you got curious for whatever reason – like Waverly was prone to do – and looked up, you’d notice numerous windows missing from the flats up on the third and fourth floors of some of the neighboring buildings. Right in the middle of the short stretch of rue de Venise, an old dilapidated wooded house stood – one of the last surviving relicts of the old Paris – its windows boarded up long ago, its compact stature providing an unexpected reprieve from the tall canyon-like walls of the surrounding tenements.

The room came unfurnished and Waverly had used some of her measly savings to acquire a used metal bed frame and a mattress pad. That would have to do for furnishings for now, although she really missed having a personal wash basin. She didn’t need an abacus to know she could not afford such luxuries though – bringing in 40 francs from the Sorbonne and supplementing it with 8 francs a month for laundering and pressing Mr. Svane’s clothes twice a week didn’t exactly allow for the non-essentials.

Ultimately, she chose this room for its proximity to the university and the rent that was relatively _inexpensive_ for this part of town. The 4th arrondissement of Paris! Many acquaintances she’s made at the Sorbonne had been outright jealous of her finding accommodations in that neighborhood, yet somehow Waverly knew they would be significantly less envious once they saw – and smelled – this little-known street.

Her daily walk to the university never took longer than 25 minutes and consisted of crossing the River Seine via Île de la Cité, which vaguely reminded Waverly of her walks through the Paddington wharves back at home – well, maybe minus the offensive smells. That little familiarity brought her the comfort and fortitude every morning, something that she needed more than she was willing to admit quite yet.

Waverly certainly felt out of place in the unfamiliar city, yet more than that, she felt out of her depths at the university – in Dr. Curie’s lab. The facility was brand new and Dr. Curie had tasked Waverly with setting it up – arranging the equipment and stocking up the laboratory supplies. The woman was undoubtedly brilliant but working with her was not easy; she was often gone due to her other obligations at the university, and when she was in the lab, she appeared lost in thought and payed Waverly little heed. Perhaps Waverly just missed Hertha – no, she _knew_ she did – and the easy and warm relationship they’d built over the years. Realizing it wasn’t fair to compare Dr. Curie to her former mentor, Waverly found herself doing just that on every step anyway.

Covering her face with the pillow to block out at least some of the bloody noises coming from the outside, Waverly was ready to howl in frustration. It was Wednesday night, for crying out loud! Did the Parisians not understand the concept of conscientiousness, even if they themselves didn’t have to work the following morning?

Ugh, even across the English Channel, Wednesdays were still the worst!

~

Waverly’s morning task of taking the inventory and stocking test tubes was interrupted by an unexpected visitor.

“And this is the laboratory. We are still organizing it, I’m afraid,” Dr. Curie was showing a slight, quiet woman around. The visitor wore a purple, high-collared dress of a German style; her hands were clasped nervously in front of her; the dark circles under her eyes suggested a recent lack of sleep. She looked young – maybe just a few years older than Waverly – and was nodding eagerly at every word that came out of Dr. Curie’s mouth.

“Ah, and there is my research assistant. Waverly, please meet Dr. Lise Meitner. Dr. Meitner, this is Ms. Waverly Earp.”

“Please call me Lise,” the stranger offered in a thick German accent, extending her hand in greeting.

“Waverly.”

“Dr. Meitner has recently graduated from the University of Vienna with a doctorate degree in physics. She is only the second woman ever to be granted a doctorate from that academic institution,” Dr. Curie elaborated.

 _So an Austrian accent then, not German_ , Waverly hastily corrected herself.

“I must admit that I am envious. Upon learning about her appointment at the Sorbonne, I wrote to Dr. Curie a few months ago inquiring about possible employment opportunities but none were available at the time,” Lise looked around the laboratory in awe. 

Waverly was at a loss of how to properly respond – Lise’s body language was timid and her countenance was mousy, yet her words carried a hint of resentment. Did Waverly preclude another woman from furthering her scientific career by taking the post in Dr. Curie’s lab – a woman who, unlike Waverly, actually held a doctorate degree? No wonder Dr. Curie has acted rather indifferent towards her since she’d started in January – perhaps the letter from Lise didn’t arrive until after the promise Dr. Curie had made to Hertha to employ Waverly.

Thankfully, Waverly’s internal spiraling was interrupted by Dr. Curie, “Dr. Meitner is on her way to Berlin, where Dr. Max Planck offered to allow her to attend his lectures. She will also collaborate with a chemist, Otto Hahn, whose work focuses on radiochemistry.”

Lise just nodded her head sadly. “The facilities that are to my disposal at the University of Berlin don’t compare to what you are creating here, Dr. Curie. Herr Hahn says that if perhaps there was only one strike against me, instead of three, he could fight for the access to better laboratories. As it is, I will have to settle for working from a former woodworking shop in the Chemical Institute.”

_Three strikes? What on earth does that mean?_

“What strikes do you have against you? If… if you don’t mind me asking,” Waverly’s tongue always seemed to act on its own volition.

Both Lise and Dr. Curie stood and looked at Waverly for a solid minute, blinking in astonished silence that continued to the verge of becoming uncomfortable. _Was her question_ so  _inappropriate?_

Lise cleared her throat awkwardly. “Uhm, you see Waverly, being an Austrian Jewish woman is enough to preclude someone from accessing a lot of state facilities in Germany.” 

Oh. _Ohh…_

“I… uhm… I’m sorry…” Waverly started to apologize – yet she wasn’t sure whether she was apologizing specifically for her insensitive question, or for the absolutely unjust bigotry Lise had to fight against, while Waverly enjoyed a relative peacefulness alongside Dr. Curie. Yet another reminder for Waverly of how naïve she was and how grateful she should be, even when her life seemed testing at times.

“You should have seen the _shed_ Pierre and I used as our laboratory for years, Dr. Meitner. The access to the newest and shiniest facilities is not what a scientist makes and I truly believe that the obstacles we face as women motivates and stimulates us to the extent that no man will ever know. Life is not easy for any of us. But what of that? We must have perseverance and above all confidence in ourselves!” Dr. Curie’s words may have been construed as reprimanding, yet they were vaguely comforting and inspiring for Waverly. 

Nonetheless, Lise looked as if she was struck. Waverly honestly felt for her and so she tried to redirect the conversation, “What is it that you plan on focusing your work in Berlin on?”

“Oh, as a physicist, I am fascinated by radioisotopes and their interactions with the alpha particles. I want to study their physical behavior when they emit the alpha radiation. But I also have this crazy idea that I want to see what happens if we do the opposite, you know? What if we can strike an isotope with an alpha particle? How will it behave? Will the nucleus split, as the laws of kinetic energy would dictate? But if it does, would it become a different element _chemically_? I’m… I’m sorry, I’m rambling again.” She looked to Dr. Curie, clearly embarrassed, yet Waverly was quickly warming up to this version of Lise who seemed as prone as her to talk about the intricacies of this new fascinating world of radiochemistry to anyone who would listen.

Completely disregarding Lise’s apology and skating right over her embarrassment, Waverly chose to engage her further. After all, how often did one get a chance to exchange ideas with a woman physicist? “Now, that’s an intriguing idea! You see, I’m more of a chemist myself, and the chemical transformations those elements undergo due to the physical processes still feels a little magical to me.”

Beaming with the first real smile since she walked through the door, Lise appeared to shed a lot of her nerves and uncertainty at the comment. She unclasped her hands and gestured animatedly, “I know _exactly_ what you mean! The entire field of radiochemistry has such a magical flair to it!” She giggled like a child who stole a lollipop she wasn’t supposed to have before dinner.

Waverly responded in kind. It was so refreshing to be allowed to act so silly, so _girly_ , while discussing serious scientific concepts and not be judged for it. “My hobbyhorse is electrochemisty – electrolysis in particular. The ability of the electric current to drive chemical reactions has a similar… _magical flair_ to it, as you so eloquently put.”

Dr. Curie smiled softly at the two of them, looking no doubt like a duo of girls gossiping about the most handsome boys in school. She sent Waverly an encouraging nod and retreated to her office adjacent to the laboratory, leaving Lise in her custody for the remainder of the morning.

~ 

Wringing her head scarf in her hands in a nervous tic, Waverly stood on the front stoop of Dr. Curie’s apartment, summoning her courage to ring the bell. She straightened her dress, ran a hand through her hair, repeated the calming gesture twice more for a good measure, and took a deep breath.

Dr. Curie had invited her over for dinner, after remarking what an exceptional job she’s done making Lise Meitner feel welcome at their facility. She actually had said that – _their_ facility! And so here Waverly was, a nervous ball of nerves, not sure what to expect from this encounter.

She rang and waited with bated breath.

A little girl – probably not older than ten, if Waverly had to venture a guess – opened the door and looked at her inquisitively, “I’m Irène. And you are?”

Waverly was momentarily dumbfounded by the seriousness and the formal tone coming from the little girl. “Uhm, I’m… I…”

Her stutter was interrupted by an appearance of a young woman, who dropped to one knee next to the girl, a bit out of breath, “Irène, you know what your mama says about opening the door on your own.” 

“Yes, I know. But Aunt Nicole, there is a rather inarticulate lady at the door. Look,” the child pointed at Waverly, who burned bright red in indignation at being so criticized by this little human.

The woman – Aunt Nicole, apparently – looked up and Waverly recognized her immediately as one of the women she had encountered with Mr. Svane in a café about a month ago. Looking at her in this particular location and this particular position also triggered another memory – a memory she’d long forgotten. Waverly hadn’t even realized that this was the same person she knocked over back in November when she first visited Dr. Curie with Hertha. She took a step back and looked at the façade to make sure she hadn’t mistaken the building. No, this was definitely the correct place.

“Ah, Waverly, please come in,” came Dr. Curie’s voice from inside the apartment. “I must apologize as we are a bit behind with dinner preparation. I am glad you could make it.”

Irène stepped to the side, allowing Waverly entrance but Nicole was slow to her feet and gawked at Waverly from her kneeling position on the floor. Quite impertinent, if Waverly must say so herself!

“This is my older daughter, Irène,” Dr. Curie clasped a hand over the little girl’s shoulder. Waverly had no idea that Dr. Curie had a child – not to mention children, plural. She was always at the University before Waverly had arrived and stayed after Waverly would leave home in the evening.

“Hello Irène, I’m Waverly Earp. I work with your mother.”

“Pleasure to meet you. This is my Aunt Nicole,” Irène pointed to the woman on the floor. “Aunt Nicole, why are you kneeling?” Without waiting for a response, she faced Waverly again, “Aunt Nicole is not really my aunt but we call her that anyway because mama says she’s like family. She can be a little silly at times but mama also says it’s good entertainment.”

The little girl was a handful and Waverly thoroughly enjoyed seeing Nicole squirm.

“Irène, please see our guest in, as I go and help Ms. Zosia in the dining room,” Dr. Curie requested. If this is how she spoke to her children, Waverly had no trouble seeing why Irène was so formal.

“Of course, mama. Please follow me,” Irène addressed Waverly and started off through a long hallway.

They walked into a small sitting room, where a middle-aged woman was sitting on a sofa with a toddler, paging through what looked like an art album from where Waverly was standing by the door. Irène sat down on the other side of the woman and directed her attention to the book.

“Mademoiselle Earp, was it?” Waverly was startled by a sudden appearance of Nicole next to her. “Please, take a seat as we wait for dinner,” she gestured to two comfortably looking armchairs. “My name is Nicole Haught and this is Baroness Hélène van Zuylen.”

Oh, wow. _A baroness_. Waverly plopped down gracelessly in the armchair. Was she supposed to bow? Curtsy? She wasn’t sure, so she did neither and inclined her head slightly in greeting instead, “Baroness." 

“Just call me Hélène. Baroness van Zuylen is my husband’s mother,” she waved her hand dismissively. 

“Waverly,” she got out, still a bit awestruck. 

The toddler next to the baroness started wiggling excitedly. 

“And this,” Nicole said, lifting the girl up, “is Ève, Marie’s younger daughter. Can you say hi to Waverly, ladybug?”

“Hi Way’rly,” Ève waved her little palm in Waverly’s direction but quickly became shy and hid her face in Nicole’s neck.

Nicole smiled, cradled the girl’s head, and sat down in the chair next to Waverly. 

Upon a closer examination, Waverly recognized the baroness as a part of the insolent trio she had encountered last month. She had gone to the café with Mr. Svane – a perfect gentleman, who she quickly grew to respect. He had excused himself as they entered the restaurant, wishing to acknowledge some acquaintances of his that also happened to be dining there. From where she was seated, Waverly couldn’t hear the exchange but their body language told it all – Mr. Svane greeted the three women with a refined bow and seemingly exchanged some pleasantries but was welcomed with disrespect and downright physical hostility in return.

Waverly wondered briefly how someone as renowned as Dr. Curie found herself associated with these women. Mr. Svane had warned her delicately about the _bohemian_ lifestyle they lead and judging upon Nicole’s attire – another exquisite suit – it was rather a secret of Polichinelle. In all honesty, Waverly couldn’t care less about people’s love lives – other people came into Waverly’s consciousness only in reference to how she measured against them, how sufficient… or rather _in_ sufficient… she felt around them. Her mind preferred to focus on science as opposed to the private lives of others. Yet, she appreciated Mr. Svane’s kind, solicitous words, and she was observant enough to conclude that those women were rude, conceited, and arrogant all on her own.

“You may recognize us as the part of the famous female motorist trio,” Hélène broke her musings, clearly mistaking her staring.

Waverly had recognized them alright, just not as that. She nodded regardless.

“Our missing accomplice, Camille, won’t be joining us tonight, unfortunately. She’s on a ballooning expedition from Paris to Manchester. May the winds be in her favor.”

Ève stirred at that, seemingly forgetting about the stranger in the room she was reticent around not a minute ago. “Camille?” she asked Hélène.

“Camille is ballooning, remember Ève? What does a balloon do?” Hélène asked.

“Girls, wash your hands please!” came a muted request from somewhere within the apartment. 

“What does a balloon do, Ève?” Hélène repeated. 

The little girl filled her cheeks with air until they were bulging out in two perfectly symmetrical spheres. Hélène swiftly got to her feet, snatched the girl from Nicole’s arms, and lifted her up over her head. “Up, up you go, little balloon.” 

Ève giggled and released the air she was holding, causing Hélène to pretend to drop her. “Oh no, we detected a loss of pressure. Abort, abort!” Hélène yelled but lifted the girl again as soon as Ève inflated her cheeks again.

Nicole was laughing in the chair next to Waverly, as Hélène carried the girl out of the room, pretending to be on a ballooning expedition to the washroom. And what a melodic laughter it was!

Once the ruckus died down, Irène asked Waverly, “Did you know that the principle of ballooning is based on warming up the air inside the balloon thus causing it to become less dense than the surrounding air? It lifts off simply because it’s buoyant.”

“Yes, I did know that,” Waverly confirmed with a genuine smile. This kid was going places, she could already tell.

“See, Aunt Nicole. It is a common knowledge that hot air balloons share no operating principles with the internal combustion engines you are so fond of.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it a _common_ knowledge. From where I am seated, there is nothing common about Mademoiselle Earp.” Nicole sent her a smile that she undoubtedly considered charming but that Waverly found obnoxious at best. Dressed in a three-piece green tweed suit and a white shirt with a perfectly starched collar, Nicole was reclining in the armchair; her right leg was thrown over the left, her hands we clasped confidently in her lap. Missing were only a monocular and a cigar and she would have been a definition of an exemplary _gentleman_.

Waverly decided to ignore the annoying woman for now, in favor of captivating the attention of this child prodigy, “Physical properties of matter are fascinating and we can typically apply the same principles to all the substances. Take density, for example. You said that heating the air makes it less dense and it is true for most substances out there. We can logically say that most solids are more dense than their corresponding liquid phases. Can you think of one exception to this rule?” 

Scooting to the edge of the sofa and assuming a pose uncannily resembling the statute of The Thinker Waverly saw just last week in front of the Panthéon, Irène pondered the question in silence. “No, I must admit that I can’t think of any exceptions to this rule.”

“Water and ice,” Waverly said, before elaborating, “You see, water has the highest density at the temperature of 4oC, so when it freezes at 0oC, the ice floats on top of the water instead of sinking like any other solid would. This exceptional property of water, unlike any other substance, allows the lakes and rivers to freeze over on the surface, while sustaining the life underneath throughout the winter.” 

Irène’s eyes shone with the hunger for knowledge and a hint of a newly-earned respect for Waverly. Before Irène could ask the questions Waverly already saw taking shape in her brain, Hélène appeared in the doorway, “Dinner is ready.”

As they got up to follow Hélène and Irène to the dining room, Nicole held the door open for Waverly. “Beautiful _and_ smart,” she remarked in a whisper as Waverly was passing by, clearly intending on it being a compliment, if her dimpled, flirtatious smile was anything to go by.

“Rich _and_ presumptuous,” was all Waverly murmured back good-naturedly, barely audible, as this attractive, cheeky stranger was somehow turning out to be both infuriating and endearing.

The dinner passed smoothly and without a hiccup. Hélène inquired about Waverly’s upbringing and remarked that her family owned a residence in London. The motorist enthusiasts got engulfed in a technical discussion about the advantages of multivalve engines, before they were interrupted by Dr. Curie feigning exasperation with them always steering the conversation towards their motor-cars – or rather, _auto-mobiles_ , as the French called them. She proceeded to tease them gently, asking how they would feel if she highjacked the conversation with Waverly’s help to discuss the merits of chemical separation techniques over the physical ones. 

Waverly wasn’t sure why but she had spent a considerable amount of effort avoiding Nicole’s eyes during dinner – perhaps it was because the woman kept looking at her with a burning curiosity, perhaps because Waverly was unaccustomed to being the center of anybody’s undivided attention.

Overall though, Waverly had to admit that she enjoyed herself much more than she had initially anticipated. Truthfully, this one evening of merriment spent in an agreeable company did wonders to her homesick, melancholic soul. Her perception of Dr. Curie’s guests also evolved as the evening progressed – oh, she still found them both to be rather arrogant but perhaps not as impertinent as she had initially assumed. 

Having said her goodbyes, Waverly was walked to the door by Dr. Curie. There was one last topic that weighed heavily on her mind. “Thank you for the invitation tonight, Dr. Curie. I must say that it was delightful to share a meal in good company,” she started with a compliment, cognizant of good manners. “If I may ask you one thing that has been troubling me since Lise visited the lab. Did you… Would you have preferred to have her as your research assistant?” 

Upon seeing Dr. Curie’s raised eyebrow, Waverly hastily continued, “It’s just that she said she had asked about the position and I’m assuming that you turned her down, since you already promised Hertha to employ me. With a doctorate degree and all of the bright ideas she has, Lise is without a doubt a better qualified person than me. I can’t help but think that you are stuck with me due to your sense of obligation to Hertha… And… if that’s the case… I guess…”

“Waverly, I will not wrap the truth in cotton,” Dr. Curie interrupted her jumbled, self-deprecating ramble with one of her confusing sayings. “I received the letter from Lise mere days before I met with you and Hertha. I considered her candidacy thoroughly and upon hearing Hertha’s recommendation, decided to offer the job to you.”

Waverly listened carefully, becoming more dejected by a minute, convinced Dr. Curie would reveal how she’s made a mistake employing her in Lise’s stead.

“I stand by that decision – you are much better suited for that position than Lise would have been. She is a physicist, just like me, Waverly. What I need is someone to supplement my skills and knowledge, not someone to amplify them. Do you understand?”

Nodding her head, Waverly couldn’t believe her ears. “You need a chemist, not a physicist… I uhm… Thank you…” Waverly was overwhelmed, yet she understood why Dr. Curie had chosen her. “But what will Lise do now?”

“Ah, do not fret. I was also concerned about seeing such a bright potential wasted and so I took it upon myself to talk to my friend Max Planck at the University of Berlin. That old fool never allowed women into his lectures out of principle, so it took a bit of convincing but he eventually agreed to accept Lise into his program. If my instincts are right, she will impress him immensely and by the end of the year, will become his assistant.”

“And you mentioned she will work with another chemist, right? Oh, that’s wonderfully crafty of you, Dr. Curie!”

The woman graced Waverly with one of her rare warm smiles and gave her a short, slightly awkward hug, ending the conversation. “Good night, Waverly.”

“Good night, Dr. Curie.”

~ 

The following Saturday, still buzzing with the unexpected enthusiasm that had filled her after the dinner at Dr. Curie’s, Waverly was laundering clothes at Mr. Svane’s residence. The day was wet and cold, foggy – it reminded her of London in a wicked, positive way. Not keen on taking the 50-minute walk in this weather, Waverly splurged on a metro ticket this morning. Mr. Svane’s flat was located in the heart of Paris, on _Champs_ - _Élysées_ – you could see the Grand Palais from his windows, could hear the engines of the boats floating on the Seine, could smell the mouthwatering aromas wafting from the adjacent posh restaurants.

Humming softly to herself, thinking of nothing in particular, Waverly grabbed a sopping wet shirt out of the laundry bucket, plopped it on top of the mangle, and cranked the shaft to expel the excess water. Another shirt – gray this time – followed, then a pair of brown pants, a pink shirt, a gray vest, a white shirt, a white shirt, a white shirt…

Lost in the monotonous, repetitive process, Waverly didn’t notice someone enter the laundry room.

“You never cease to impress me, Waverly. So industrious. So hard-working.”

Waverly blushed at the praise. If his comments were inappropriate and creepy, she didn’t notice, not accustomed to receiving recognition for her dedication to work, and certainly not from a successful businessman like Mr. Svane. Looking down at her worn-out, wet, and filthy to boot dress, Waverly blushed even deeper – this time with shame. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today, Mr. Svane.” 

“Ya. My trip to America was cut short. Those Yankees with their anti-trust laws sure make businessmen like me not feel very welcome. What harm does a little consolidation and monopoly cause, I ask you?”

“I… uhm…” Waverly didn’t know.

Mr. Svane waved his hand dismissively, “Don’t worry your head about it, Waverly.”

Even though she couldn’t offer any true words of consolation, not knowing the first thing about the international market laws, Waverly – being the kind, empathetic angel that she was – attempted to at least change the subject and cheer the man up, “Oh! You won’t guess who I shared dinner with at Dr. Curie’s just this week, Mr. Svane. It was two of the women we encountered in Café de Flore together – Baroness Hélène van Zuylen and Nicole Haught. What a small world, wouldn’t you agree?”

It _almost_ looked like the left side of Mr. Svane’s upper lip trembled, as if he was a rabid dog readying to growl and bare his teeth, but Waverly must have been mistaken in the dim light of this rainy day, as his countenance stretched in a pleasant smile not a second later.

“Oh?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised. “It never occurred to me before this moment that you may encounter _Haught_ through your association with Madame Curie.” 

The way he referred to Nicole by her surname only and the manner with which he nearly spit it out didn’t come unnoticed to Waverly. “You seem… The two of you seem to have a… history? Are you… are you _rivals_?” She wasn’t sure what the proper term was but based on the fact that they were both wealthy and appeared to move in the same circles, it seemed safe to assume that Mr. Svane and Nicole had competing business interests.

“I wouldn’t call us _rivals_. No. You see, Nicole comes from very old money with pretenses to a _foreign_ noble title that means nothing in modern France. My family has worked for _everything_ we have – _I_ have worked for it. All she’s ever done was enjoy a decadent life and squander her family fortune. So no, we are not rivals, as I put an honest effort in all of my business endeavors.”

“Why the bad blood then?” Mr. Svane seemed to be in a forthcoming mood today and so Waverly pressed further, curious about his relationship with the infuriating woman. 

His eyes flashed dangerously. “It’s not enough that she has no regards for a man’s work, Nicole also turned it into sort of a sport for herself – always trying to derail my plans, revolting my workers against me, lobbying the French government for labor laws clearly devised with a singular intention of bankrupting my factories.”

“Really? She seemed so… harmless…” 

He chuckled mirthlessly. “Nicole Haught is many things but _harmless_ is not one of them. She’s a scheming, devious hedonist, who will stop at nothing to maximize her own pleasures and ruin my life…” Mr. Svane paused, seemingly pondering something and stroking his immaculately trimmed beard, “If only there was a little bird… someone who had access to Nicole and could listen in on her plans and report them back to me. I would… _reward_ … such a little bird generously…” 

He let the words hang heavily in the air between them, piercing Waverly with his steely blue eyes, still stroking his bearded chin. Did he think _she_ had access to Nicole? What a bunch of codswallop!

“Mr. Svane… I uhm… I’d love to help, I really would…” A _but_ was imminent, yet Waverly paused, sighing deeply. It seemed awfully unfair that a hard-working man like Mr. Svane should suffer through childish games played by a bored rich wench. “I’ll tell you what – should I be in Nicole’s company again, I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”

“You sweet, sweet girl. You’d do that for me?” he seemed genuinely chocked up and Waverly smiled at him sweetly. What a charming man he was. 

“Of course. It’s the least I can do after you so generously offered me the job of your laundry maid, not knowing the first thing about me!” 

“Well, Waverly, I’m sure you will turn out to be much more useful than you can imagine. As promised, I will reward you for your loyalty... How does an additional ten francs a month sound? On top of the eight you are receiving now, of course.”

“Mr. Svane! That’s very kind of you. I just hope you won’t be disappointed.” Waverly couldn’t believe her luck! With ten additional francs a month all of her financial woes would be solved; she could perhaps even afford to buy a wash basin for her room now! 

“Oh, I won’t. I’m quite sure I won’t…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To wrap the truth in cotton – Polish idiom; to beat around the bush.
> 
> Lise Meitner – an Austrian physicist, she was the second woman to receive a doctorate degree from the University of Vienna.  
> She did write to Dr. Curie, inquiring about a job, but none was available, and so she went to Berlin, where Max Planck made an exception for her and allowed her to attend his lectures (never previously had he allowed a woman into his lecture hall). After a year, she became Planck’s assistant. At the same time, she started working with Otto Hahn and their collaboration lasted for 30 years (she really did have to work out of an old woodworking workshop initially because she was an Austrian, a Jew, and a woman).
> 
> The most sour part of her biography is that even though she made significant contributions from the physics perspective to the work she and Hahn did, he was awarded a Nobel Prize for discovering nuclear fission, while she was not equally recognized.  
> As a nuclear physicist, she competed throughout the years with Irène Curie and her husband.  
> After WWII, she was celebrated as the “mother of the atomic bomb”, which didn’t sit well with her, based on how much unjust anguish was caused by the detonation of two nuclear bombs over Japan.  
> 


	5. March, 1907

_ March, 1907 _

The days were getting warmer, Nicole distractedly noticed, thinking she ought to take the girls ice-skating before the weather turned the ice rink in the Luxembourg Gardens into a regular pond. She was seated on the edge of a sofa in her parlor, trying to calm her nerves by letting her mind wander.

Today was important. This meeting was important.

Nicole has spent a better portion of the past two years getting in touch with and earning trust of people involved in the Polish independence movement. After Poland was arbitrarily torn apart – _partitioned_ – by its neighbors over a century ago, regaining the independence was on the forefront of every Pole’s mind. Nicole, brought up in a patriotic spirit by her late mother, would willingly give up her _life_ for the cause, but the time for such dramatic actions has long passed. The January Uprising – the last of the great armed rebellions against the foreign rule – was an absolute defeat, throwing the country into decades of brutal oppression, forcing many to emigrate, and leaving two generations of Poles hungry for action.

But the winds of change were blowing from the East. The Russian Revolution of 1905 underlined the collective strength of peasants and industrial workers, even if Tsar Nicolas held onto power by the skin of his teeth. For Nicole, it precipitated a moment of enlightenment; the European continent has quietly undergone a power shift from the influential noble houses to the hands of wealthy industrialists – at the end, it was more of the same, more of a few rich men ruling over the bulk of population. It was now crystal clear to her that the Polish independence hinged on the _independence_ of all the people of Europe, on the rights of the working classes and all the minorities to a fair treatment.

If she couldn’t give her life for her beloved country, sacrificing her Polish noble title on the altar of the revolution would have to suffice.

With a confident knock on the door, her footman Nedley announced the presence of the long-awaited visitor, “Madame Rosa Luxemburg.”

“Please call me Rosa,” the woman strutted in confidently and assertively extended her hand in greeting. She was short and walked with a slight limp, as if one of her legs was longer than the other. Based on all the larger-than-life stories told about Rosa, Nicole was momentarily taken aback by her petite physique.

“Ro… Rosa. Of course. Nicole Haught. Pleasure to meet you,” Nicole stumbled over her words and took the proffered hand. “Please take a seat. May I offer you some tea?”

“That won’t be necessary. I only have half an hour and so time is of the essence. Tomasz informed me that you were drawn to the cause. I don’t pay house visits like this often but your mother’s family name still holds a lot of importance in Poland.”

“Oh, of course.” This woman was absolutely intimidating, a feat not a lot of people achieved with Nicole. Suddenly, the task of impressing her and gaining her trust became all the more daunting.

“It is clear that you’re still enjoying certain _luxuries_ stemming from your family fortune,” Rosa gestured around the salon. “You do understand that I represent the interests of the working class, correct? That I see the Polish independence as an inevitable by-product of the proletarian revolution?”

“Yes. Absolutely. I arrived at the same conclusion myself. The wealth and the social position I enjoy mean little to me, if I cannot use them to further our common cause.” Nicole swallowed nervously. Did she sound like a fraud, talking about the _common cause_ from the comforts of her extravagant apartment? Was her eager support to be declined simply because of who she was, who her parents were?

“Good. I hope we can agree that the bourgeois class domination is undoubtedly a historical necessity, but so is the rising of the working class against it.”

Exhaling the air out of her lungs and, with it, some of her anxiety, Nicole marched on, “I have actually been involved in the French worker’s rights movement for many years now, supporting it financially, and lobbying the legislature for stricter labor laws. I had embraced it long before I recognized the nexus between the struggle of the proletariat and the Polish cause.”

Rosa nodded her head thoughtfully. “Tomasz mentioned that you have been financing some of their operations back in Poland as well. Yet, supporting something financially is quite a different animal than participating in a direct action.”

“Yes. Yes, I do get that. Providing the capital to the cause was what my family has done for generations and I’ve proudly upheld that tradition. I want to do more though, I want to help however I can. It feels like things have been slowly brewing across the entire continent and they are readying to boil over and take those in power with them. I want us – I want Poland to be ready when the time comes.”

“I will not talk you out of it, because – frankly – we need all the support we can get. Understand though that it will likely take many more years of rabid fighting, years of lost fortunes and ruined lives, and years of pointless suffering. The revolution is coming but the militaristic imperialism is already scheming to force us to lift the weapons against our foreign brethren.”

Maybe not entirely following Rosa’s train of thought yet nodding in agreement nonetheless, Nicole couldn’t help but be completely under this woman’s spell and the unexpected charisma she possessed. Rosa radiated such a strength, such an unwavering conviction and confidence in the face of what seemed like an unattainable undertaking. Had she asked Nicole to transfer all of her funds and assets into her name and jump off the Neuf Bridge into the Seine, she would have done so in this moment, no questions asked.

“As I told Tomasz, I have the means necessary and the space that may be used in whatever capacity is needed. After we discussed what sort of _measures_ might be required in the future, I secured an access to a plain, inconspicuous shed in the University district.”

Rosa looked at her with a puzzled expression that Nicole couldn’t decipher. “Very well then,” she got up to her feet rapidly. “I will discuss things further with Tomasz and we’ll stay in contact.” With one more firm handshake, Rosa showed herself out, leaving Nicole reeling on the sofa from that whirlwind of an experience.

A shadow of the giant potted dracaena traversed across the wooden parquet, as Nicole sat in complete silence and thought, and thought, and thought. Footman Nedley shuffling his feet to announce his presence by the door broke her contemplation, “If you don’t need me for anything else today, I will be headed home. Don’t forget to eat dinner again.”

“Is it this late already? Yes, of course. You are dismissed for the day,” Nicole responded distractedly.

“Is there… Ahem…” he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Is there anything… or anyone… on your mind?” Nedley, bless his gentle soul, cared greatly for her wellbeing but found it exceedingly difficult to help her navigate through the hurdles of life, especially when he suspected her woes to be romantic in nature.

“Nothing like that,” Nicole laughed his awkwardness off. “I mean, yes, there is a girl who’s been on my mind recently, but that’s neither here nor there. I was just wondering… I was wondering if I’m making the right choice, getting involved more directly with the Polish independence movement. Through his correspondence, Tomasz insinuated that they need help building an explosive – something they cannot accomplish under the Russian rule due to the lack of access to certain supplies. He didn’t divulge what it was needed for, and I didn’t ask, knowing how secretive their plans must be. My conversation with Rosa today though… it left me with a completely different impression – she seems to be a pacifist, opposing all violence and armed struggle. I’m at a loss now…” Nedley listened carefully, stood stock-still by the door. Nicole’s eyes filled with tears, “What do you think my mother would do?”

Asking Nedley wasn’t a moot point – he’s served the Poniatowskis family since they emigrated to Paris in 1864, and followed Nicole’s mother to her new household after she married Victor Haught.

“Nicole… Anna was only eight years old when she lost her older brother to the January Uprising and her entire family was forced to flee or face vicious repercussions.” He sat gingerly in an armchair across from her, still avoiding her eyes though, either worried about crossing any more lines or just uncomfortable with being asked. “Those events helped shape her; I still remember the quiet, scared girl she was for the first few months after they moved here. She grew up to be a brave and spirited woman and – as you well know – supported the Polish cause till the end,” Nedley paused and, slowly lifting his head, he looked Nicole in the eye. “Would she have supported another armed rebellion? I don’t know, Nicole. What I do know is that you inherited her strong will and her lion heart. Whatever you decide, know that she would have been so goddamned proud of you. I know I am.”

For being so reticent and taciturn most of the time, Nedley sure turned into a sentimental mush of a man rather willingly. Nicole had no problem with it whatsoever and swiftly kneeled in front of the armchair to give him a big appreciative hug. “Thank you, Nedley.”

“You’re wrinkling the crease in my pants,” he teased, clearly as choked up as her.

~

“How about we go ice-skating today?!” Nicole offered, sitting cross-legged on the floor in Marie’s study. The temperatures had stayed firmly below freezing for the past week and she felt comfortable with the ice being thick enough for a little winter escapade.

“May we go ice-skating with Aunt Nicole, mama?” Irène asked, while Ève just jumped around excitedly, already convinced this would happen. Truth be told, Ève has never been skating before – she was always just this excited for any activity that involved leaving the apartment.

“Yes, of course,” came Marie’s distracted reply. Even though it was Sunday morning, she was lost in thought over some complicated looking equations. Nicole and the girls kept her company in her study but Nicole could clearly see that Marie’s attention was elsewhere.

“Aunt Nicole, we should invite Waverly. She was, after all, the person who told me about the distinctive feature of ice density. I would like to share this experience with her.”

“Oh… uhm…” Waverly became a regular fixture in Marie’s house, sharing dinner with the Curies or just stopping by after work. Nicole was lucky enough to be a part of two of those dinners that were graced by Waverly’s presence; she was lucky because the woman was incredibly intelligent and had such a radiant, contagious disposition that it was always a pleasure to be in her company. If Nicole was being entirely honest, she’d have to admit that she’s also developed an infatuation with Waverly; an infatuation that was innocent enough but painfully one-sided, as Waverly has repeatedly rebuffed Nicole’s not-so-subtle attempts at flirting. Even though it wasn’t particularly surprising – after all, what would a brilliant woman like Waverly Earp see in someone like Nicole, someone who, at least on the surface, spent most of her days on silly pursuits – it still took some effort to tend to Nicole’s bruised heart and her exceedingly more bruised ego.

And so she hesitated at Irène’s request – not only did it feel inappropriate to force her presence onto someone who clearly didn’t welcome her advances, it was also impolite to pay somebody an unannounced visit on a Sunday. Not very keen on having to explain any of that to the kids, Nicole decided to dodge the question instead, “We should absolutely invite Waverly but I’m afraid I don’t know where she lives. Maybe next time, yes?”

“That won’t be a problem,” Irène announced, bringing a cold sweat to Nicole’s palms. “Mama, what is Waverly’s address?”

“28 rue de Venise, apartment 7,” Marie responded without hesitation, not looking up from her desk.

“Solved,” Irène concluded with a shrug of her shoulders, grabbed her little sister by the arm, and marched them out to find Ms. Zosia and have them both dressed for the cold. Nicole was left sitting on the floor, head enclosed in the palms of her hands, contemplating why she’d ever even try to outmaneuver Irène.

Since the weather was chilly enough, Nicole decided to drive the girls across the Seine, instead of walking, to pay Waverly a visit. She half prayed Waverly wouldn’t be home, half hoped she would.

Leaving her Type Y on rue Saint-Martin because rue de Venise turned out to be too narrow for Nicole to risk scratching her beauty, she took each girl by the hand and together they walked into the confines of the little side street. The stench of urine became overwhelming not five steps into it; the visual of garbage piles and decomposing refuse lining the walls caused Ève to look up at her with something akin to alarm on her face. Nicole lifted the little girl into her arms to sooth her but they were still being dragged deeper into the sketchy alleyway by a resolute Irène.

When a large rat crossed their pathway, squeaking and sniffing its tiny nose in their direction, Nicole was ready to finally be the adult and turn them away from this mission, even if it meant disappointing the girls. She’d buy them hot chocolate with extra whipped cream, if need be. Drastic times called for drastic measures.

“I think I got the address all mixed up, Irène. Let’s go back to the auto-mobile. I promise we’ll invite Waverly next time, yes?” she tried. It was an honest effort too, or it _would have been_ with any other kid, but persuading Irène away from something she had her mind set on would take much, _much_ more than that.

“No, you had it right, Aunt Nicole. Look, there’s number 28,” the girl pointed to the building on the right.

And sure enough, there it was. Nicole hugged Ève a little bit closer to her body, squeezed Irène’s hand a little bit tighter, and looked behind one last time, making sure their exit route was clear. She hasn’t felt this uneasy since the last Christmas she spent with her father, hasn’t felt this scared since she went parachuting with Camille last year…

They entered the staircase leading up into the dark intestines of the tenement. A door on the second floor, with a yellowish paint peeling unevenly, led to the apartment number seven. Nicole knocked and waited for a response, looking around nervously.

“Who is it?” came a muffled yet familiar voice from beyond the door, lifting both Ève’s and Nicole’s spirits. The toddler wiggled excitedly in her arms and squealed a high-pitched, “Way’rly!”

“It’s Ève and Irène, and… uhm… me – Nicole. May we come in?”

With the doors unlocked and cracked ajar, Waverly’s face came into view. “I wasn’t expecting anyone today…”

Her statement was interrupted, as Ève escaped Nicole’s hold and pushed the door wide open, demanding hugs from Waverly. Irène followed confidently behind her little sister and after a perfunctory greeting, began explaining the purpose of their visit, and how _appropriate_ she thought it would be if Waverly came ice-skating with them.

Nicole stayed in the hallway but – with the door fully open – that didn’t prevent her from seeing Waverly’s accommodations in all of its glory. The tiny room was in a pitiful state; the walls were covered with a patchy wallpaper that was being devoured in the corners by black mold; a single-sized bed positioned against the wall on the right and a washbasin sat on the floor in its feet constituted all the room’s furnishings. A clothes line span the entire width of the room – all three meters of it – supporting an assortment of drying clothes. A plethora of books, papers, and Waverly’s notes lay spread on the floor in a semi-circle, starting from a singular empty spot by the wall on the left – Waverly must have been working on something this morning, sitting on the floor, her back propped against the wall, before they interrupted her. What future did this nation have if people as brilliant as Waverly Earp couldn’t afford a measly desk?

Done with her elaborate explanation, Irène looked back at Nicole. Waverly’s sight followed. She gestured around herself and repeated, clearly chagrined and irritated, “I wasn’t expecting anyone today.”

Nicole averted her eyes and took a step back, deeper into the shadows of the hallway, trying to make her presence feel as undemanding as possible. Coming here was a bad idea. Nicole has never felt so uncomfortable in her own skin, has never been so painfully reminded of her undisputable privilege.

Quickly correcting herself, Nicole gathered her courage to find Waverly’s eyes – their different social status was neither of their fault, and it certainly wasn’t Waverly’s responsibility to make her feel more comfortable in this situation; if anything, it was on Nicole for bringing the girls over. Waverly had every right to be annoyed.

Looking up at Waverly, Nicole was met not with irritation, as she’d expected, but rather with embarrassment and shame; Waverly stood in the middle of her tiny room, in the midst of her scientific papers, wringing her hands in a nervous tic.

The image was enough to fully snap Nicole out of it. She took two steps forward and, with the most charming and confident smile in her arsenal plastered on her face, said, “We’d be honored if you could come ice-skating with us, Waverly. I know that we come unannounced but Irène absolutely _insisted_ that we invite you over so that the two of you can talk more about science and… uhm… what was it, Irène?” Nicole knew exactly what _it_ was but made a conscious decision to include Irène, to loosen the atmosphere, as well as for a comedic relief.

“Properties of matter,” Irène didn’t disappoint, delivering the statement in the most serious tone and punctuating it with a firm, assured nod.

“Right. And the _properties of matter_ ,” Nicole made her best attempt at imitating Irène’s somber manner of speech and was rewarded for her efforts with a small smile from Waverly. Encouraged, Nicole took another step into the apartment and continued, “And it’s not only Irène who’s requested your presence. Oh no! Ladybug, do you want Waverly to come ice-skating with us?”

“Yes! Way’rly come skating!” Ève grabbed Waverly’s hand with an apparent goal of dragging her out of the apartment. Her puppy eyes were the last straw – Nicole saw the exact moment when Waverly’s resolve broke.

“All right, all right,” she laughed, clearly releasing some of the embarrassment and tension with it. “Give me a minute to dress more appropriately.”

Nicole didn’t know why but with Waverly’s acquiescence, a wave of happiness and relief washed over her. “We’ll leave you to it. Come meet us downstairs? I parked just around the corner, on rue Saint-Martin.”

It didn’t take longer than ten minutes for Waverly to join them. Both Curie girls were sat patiently in the back, leaving space on the front bench for her. Nicole waited, leaning against her auto-mobile, and once she spotted Waverly, she chivalrously opened the passenger door for her.

Waverly stood there, with a visible apprehension on her face. “I uhm… I never rode in a motor-car before,” she confessed in a whisper.

Nicole didn’t ridicule her, didn’t make fun; auto-mobiles were a relatively new invention after all. “The Gardens are a short distance away and I’ll drive slowly, I promise. It won’t take us longer than 10 minutes to get there. And if you feel uncomfortable at any time, just let me know, and I’ll pull over, yes?”

Looking up from her hands, woven together in front of her midriff, Waverly gave Nicole an appreciative little smile and entered the vehicle. Doors closed securely behind the girl, Nicole jogged around the front, got inside, and asked her passengers, rhetorically, “Everybody ready? Luxemburg Gardens, here we come!”

Ève squealed excitedly – driving was always her favorite activity, even when they were going barely faster than 10 km/hr through the busy, narrow Parisian streets. After the initial trepidation at the rumble of the engine, Waverly started to relax; once they got to Île de la Cité, her hand clutching the passenger door handle – unclenched; once they crossed the Seine over to the Left Bank, her feet planted firmly on the floor – slackened and crossed at the ankles in a more comfortable position. She truly started enjoying the experience – if her carefree smile was anything to go by – once the walls of the Gardens came into view.

Nicole had half the mind to just keep driving, keep going, to show Waverly how much joy and thrill comes from speeding through the French countryside, unbidden, untroubled. Dispersing that absurd daydream, Nicole parked the car in front of her apartment instead, across the street from the Luxemburg Gardens, and went around the car to open the back door for the Curie girls.

Waverly hopped out of the car, energized, and whispered a quiet, “Thank you,” as Nicole was ushering the girls outside the auto-mobile. She looked at Waverly and discovered not only the blinding, shy smile now adorning her features, but also a slight tremble of her limbs and a pink dusting of her cheeks – undoubtfully from the chill; Nicole’s Type Y had only a partial roof, leaving the front of the vehicle exposed to the elements. Quick on her feet, Nicole commanded the girls to wait where they were and went to the trunk.

“Here, Waverly, wear this,” Nicole offered her heavy driving coat to the woman. Waverly was wearing what Nicole would have described as a spring coat at best – and she would not have her catch a cold.

“Oh, it’s fine. I’m fine,” Waverly tried to downplay it, shoving her shaking hands in the pockets of her coat.

“No, you’re not. We’ll be outside for at least the next two hours,” Nicole admonished, adding in a conspiratory whisper, “You never know when the little monsters will tire.” She walked behind the woman, holding the driving coat open, not giving Waverly another chance to protest.

If the driving coat was purposefully loose on Nicole, it swallowed Waverly whole, causing Ève to burst into giggles. Nicole couldn’t help but smile as well, especially seeing the adorable pout on Waverly’s face. She moved swiftly to help her, rolling up the sleeves so that at least the tips of Waverly’s fingers were now visible.

All bundled up, they set off for the gate. The Luxemburg Gardens were exceptionally empty this afternoon, most Parisians choosing the comforts of their apartments over the frigid cold and a chance of a snowfall. They easily rented four sets of skating blades at the entrance to the Gardens. Hoping that it would go unnoticed and not cause another tense moment between them, Nicole payed the entrance and rental fees inconspicuously, as Waverly was helping the girls attach the wooden foot-plates of the blades to their boots.

The blades securely fastened, both Curie girls and Nicole made their way to the rink, Irène swiftly gaining confidence and skating away, while Nicole stayed back and helped Ève find her balance. The toddler demonstrated an exceptional coordination and she was soon able to stand on her own and glide forward. Even ending on her backside occasionally didn’t hold her back, as Ève would simply giggle and get back on her feet, determined. Nicole hovered protectively over the child but seeing how well Ève was doing, she looked around to check on Waverly and was surprised to see the woman still standing on the side of the rink, where Nicole had left her.

Sensing her indecision, Irène appeared on her side. “You should show Waverly how to skate, Aunt Nicole – like you taught me. I’ll stay with Ève.” Nicole thought she saw a spark of something mischievous in the girl’s eyes but perhaps it was only her excitement with ice-skating shining through.

Mind made up, Nicole slid towards Waverly with grace, “Last I checked, standing on solid ground did not count as skating.”

Her light teasing was met with an eyeroll, “Aren’t you quick-witted today.”

“I’m serious. I’ll teach you. It’s easier than it looks.”

Still doubtful, Waverly joined Nicole in the rink. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for her legs to skid away from underneath her and she found herself ass first on the hard ice.

“Are you all right?” Nicole was by her side in an instant, her eyes scanning Waverly’s prone form for any signs of injury.

“I’m just peachy. I’ll have you know that it is, in fact, not _easier than it looks_ ,” Waverly huffed in indignation. She attempted to get back to her feet but her skates kept gliding in opposite directions.

“Here, let me help,” Nicole offered, barely suppressing the laughter now that she was certain the girl was unharmed – besides her bruised ego – and her bruised ass.

Standing up gingerly with Nicole’s gentle aid, Waverly extended both of her arms to catch her balance, and made the mistake of bending her torso forward and looking down at her feet. Before Nicole could blink, Waverly was splayed on the ice again.

Irène and Ève glided over and the three of them gathered around Waverly’s lying figure. “She’s clumsier than Ève,” Irène observed, before addressing Waverly, with a confounded expression on her face, “You’re clumsier than Ève, Waverly.”

“What an astute observation,” Waverly mused, apparently not very keen on getting back up any time soon.

“You need to let Aunt Nicole teach you. I know we poke fun at her sometimes but she’s a very good teacher. You just have to trust her,” Irène offered her unsolicited advice with an assured nod of her head, took Ève’s hand, and skated away, leaving Nicole to deal with the resulting mess.

“Don’t mind them. If you’d like, I can help you over to the edge and you can wait for us on solid ground,” Nicole suggested sincerely, her eyes following the backs of the two little girls. She was secretly hoping this would at least turn out to be a fun activity for Waverly, since they’d ruined her morning, yet now – with Waverly clearly not enjoying herself – her confidence was wavering.

Waverly sighed and huffed, her face transforming into a determined scowl, “No way will I get showed up by a three-year-old. Help me up and show me the magic, Nicole.”

Nicole obeyed instantaneously, stunted into silence by this resolute display; if she had any hope for this silly crush to fade away given enough time, it was all drowned by a sudden appearance of an assertive Waverly. A razor-edge sharp arrow of attraction shot straight through Nicole’s body, leaving her light-headed.

Standing in front of Waverly and supporting the woman by both of her elbows, Nicole could only pray to any god that would listen that her sweaty palms, accelerated pulse, and undoubtedly dilated pupils went unnoticed by Waverly. What was wrong with her? She was Nicole Haught, _merde alors_ , and she would not behave like a horny teenager around a pretty girl!

“Nicole?” Waverly’s voice snapped her out of her internal struggle.

Swallowing thickly, Nicole tried to calm her racing heart down and lied smoothly, “I was just trying to see how long you could keep your balance.”

“I think you’re doing all the balancing,” Waverly giggled and demonstrated by wiggling her elbows still held securely in Nicole’s palms, perhaps trying to disperse the tense, uncomfortable air around them.

“Right.” Nicole let go of her elbows but grabbed Waverly’s hands at the first sign on trouble. “Waverly, don’t look at your feet. Look at me.”

Waverly’s eyes snapped back. This was not good. Not good at all. They were stood facing each other on the edge of the ice rink in the center of the Luxemburg Gardens, holding hands and looking deeply into each other’s eyes. Nicole needed to make this less awkward, less uncomfortable, before she ruined any chances she might have had of becoming Waverly’s friend.

“Lesson one: don’t look at your feet. Lesson two: keep your knees slightly bent and your upper body slightly bowed forward – copy me.”

Waverly did as instructed and, although she wobbled unsteadily, she managed to stay upright with only a sliver of support from Nicole.

“Great. Now, let’s try marching. It will help you be more confident. Keep looking at me and try to forget we’re on ice – just lift your right foot and move it forward, as if you were walking.”

Biting her lower lip uncertainly, Waverly took an unsteady step forward. Her left foot followed. Nicole kept taking small steps backwards, still holding to Waverly’s hands, and they found their way to the middle of the rink in no time.

Puffy snowflakes started floating around them softly, gently, yet Nicole barely noticed, enamored by Waverly’s proud smile and joyful eyes.

“You’re doing so well,” Nicole praised honestly and had to swallow her heart at the sight of Waverly’s bashful blush. “I uhm… I’ll let go of one of your hands now and we’ll try gliding, okay?”

“Gliding?” clutching Nicole’s hands harder, as if afraid of letting go, Waverly asked with a visible apprehension painting her beautiful features.

“It’s much the same as walking, just instead of putting your skate firmly down, give it a bit of a momentum forward.” Feeling another sharp grasp of her hands, Nicole added, “I won’t let you fall, I promise.” It sounded deeper than she intended. It sounded like a promise she shouldn’t be making. Yet, it also rang so painfully truthful that Nicole didn’t even attempt to take it back. She knew she would be there for this woman, in whatever capacity she would let her.

Waverly searched her eyes and, with an imperceptible nod, she let go of Nicole’s right hand. Like a new-born fawn, Waverly took the first shaky glide, and then the next, and the next. Her left arm was waving comically next to her, constantly trying to find balance. They managed to skate half way around the rink and Nicole could feel Waverly’s confidence growing by the minute.

Not wanting to part yet, but feeling like the time was fast approaching, Nicole was ready to suggest that Waverly let go of her hand, when she felt an impact to her right side. Loosing balance and slamming straight into Waverly, Nicole barely just managed to rotate her body so that she fell on the hard ice first, dragging Waverly’s body with her.

They stayed like that for what seemed like eternity, white puffs of steam indicative of their heavy breathing. The snow was now falling heavily all around them, blanketing everything in a serene bubble, seemingly encasing them protectively from the outside world. Waverly’s entire body was embedded snuggly on top of Nicole, her surprised eyes were blinking rapidly at the unexpected turn of events, her face was centimeters away from Nicole – if she just inclined her head up a bit, their lips would certainly meet… Her brain-to-body communication clearly inhibited by the freezing temperatures and the goddess of a woman on top of her, Nicole allowed her head to lift minutely. She barely registered Waverly’s eyes blinking close reflexively and was about to claim her lips, consequences be damned…

“I’m sorry, Aunt Nicole. We didn’t see you there. I was just showing Ève how to break but I guess the snow must have made the ice more slippery than I had anticipated.” Irène was stood above them, holding her little sister’s hand, and looking down at them inquisitively.

It took another second of heavy silence for both Nicole’s and Waverly’s brains to catch up with the reality.

“Oh my god, I’m such a stumblebum,” Waverly was off of her in a flurry of panic and apologies, inadvertently digging an elbow or two into Nicole’s ribs and muscles.

“Hey, you’re standing up on your own!” Nicole applauded from her position on the ice.

Waverly looked down at her feet in astonishment, as if she needed more empirical evidence to confirm Nicole’s observation. “I am! I’m bloody doing it!” Waverly whooped, causing Nicole and both the Curie girls to laugh and join in the merriment.

Getting up to her feet, groaning at the feeling of her bruised ribs, Nicole looked around them to discover an abandoned park. Everyone must have left long ago at the first sign of snowfall. Looking at the two little girls, hats soaking wet and noses bright red, Nicole scowled at herself for being too wrapped up in Waverly to notice. “What do you girls think of stopping by Café de Flore on the way home and getting some hot chocolate?”

“Can Way’rly come?” Ève asked adorably and shuffled closer to Waverly to grab her hand.

“Of course, ladybug. I think we all deserve a sweet treat after the day we just had.”

~

The next morning, Nicole payed her favorite carpenter on passage du Chantier a visit and ordered a simple wooden desk set – nothing ostentatious, just a plain, functional writing table and a matching chair. Once crafted, she requested that it be sent to 28 rue de Venise, apartment 7, accompanied by a short note.

_Waverly,_

_I hope you won’t find this gift as presumptuous as you found me during our first shared dinner at Marie’s._

_N.P.H._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rosa Luxemburg was a pacifist and a political theoretician, who developed a humanitarian theory of Marxism, stressing democracy and revolutionary mass action to achieve international socialism. She was a passionate critic of capitalism and welcomed the Russian Revolution with hope but, as a revolutionary democrat, remained critical and alert: with great prescience, she attacked the Bolsheviks’ dictatorial policies early on.  
> She belonged to the disadvantaged, often persecuted minorities her entire life, for reasons of both birth and fate: She was Jewish—and she could not escape anti-Semitism even though she had no interest in religion; she was Polish—and as a Pole she was subjected to both German and Russian rule. At a time when few women attended college and were expected to be housewives, Luxemburg got a doctoral degree and never married.  
> Rosa Luxemburg is a martyr of the German Revolution. On January 15, 1919, she was killed. Last month marked a 100th anniversary of her political murder, gathering small crowds commemorating her life in several German cities. There are not a lot of women who come to mind who were assassinated for political reasons and Rosa is one of them.  
> She was considered a great orator and a prolific writer, cherished today by her leftwing supporters due to her opposition to the first world war and her fight for the rights of the working class, as well as the fact that her early death meant her reputation was not blemished by later disillusionments with the communist dream.  
> 


	6. April, 1907

_ April, 1907 _

The sun was still up high on the horizon, signaling the arrival of warmer days still to come, when Waverly was leaving the laboratory. It being one of those rare days when Dr. Curie had decided to leave work at a decent hour, they stepped outside of the university building in unison, each taking a deep breath of the spring air.

Throngs of little city birds – brown sparrows, sheeny black starlings, and orange-headed robins – were causing a cheerful uproar in the neighboring bushes. Waverly listened fondly to the cacophony of chirps, tweets, and peeps. They reminded her of her current jumbled emotions.

“Dr. Curie, why don’t we walk through the Gardens on the way to dinner? I know it will add at least ten minutes to the route but the weather is simply spectacular today – it would be such a shame to miss it,” Waverly proposed, feeling invigorated by the spring sunshine.

To her surprise, Dr. Curie acquiesced readily and allowed Waverly to lead the way.  

They walked in silence, Dr. Curie being her typical taciturn self, allowing Waverly to get lost in her own thoughts, thoughts that inevitably raced to a certain infuriating woman who gradually and unbeknown to Waverly had warmed her way into her heart.

_Nicole Haught._

Waverly sighed deeply just thinking about that name.

She had so many confusing feelings about the woman, heard so many opposing opinions and advices from the people that knew her better – and longer – than Waverly. All she knew was that had Nicole connected their lips during their ice-skating mishap a week ago, she would have let her, would have enjoyed it even, desired it.

And then there was the matter of the desk set Nicole had gifted her. Waverly initially thought that she ought to decline the present politely – it felt too intimate somehow, too personal. Yet the simple writing table fit so perfectly in her rented room and it helped her aching back tremendously. Eventually, the desk stayed – a wooden reminder of Nicole’s kindness and consideration.

Fully aware that she should be cautious, what with recently moving to a new city, a new _country_ , she was inevitably still experiencing a certain level of culture shock and homesickness, which left her vulnerable and yearning for a more meaningful human contact. But Waverly has also decided to be more receptive, more welcoming of Nicole’s advances. She wasn’t always confident but she _would_ flirt back with Nicole next time they met, or would at least attempt to – it couldn’t be that difficult, could it?

They hadn’t seen each other since that day in the Gardens and Waverly often found her feet taking her through the park on the way to her apartment, even if it _was_ in the opposite direction than she needed to go. She had never experienced being drawn to nature before – on the contrary, the greenery was unfamiliar to her and often brought a dreadful sense of anxiety with it – yet this particular park, the Luxemburg Gardens, was so strongly associated with Nicole and the carefree afternoon they had shared, that Waverly sought it out again and again and again, just to relive that day a little bit each time.

Passing by the Odéon Theatre, Waverly noticed a flash of short wavy red hair between the monumental columns of the building. The theater was truly stunning in the late afternoon light, its six symmetrical columns creating a stately impression and casting long shadows on the unsuspecting pedestrians. Many Parisian buildings were such exceptional marvels of architecture and Waverly often worried that she would one day become indifferent to their beauty.

A few steps closer to the theater, Waverly could clearly see that she wasn’t wrong – it was Nicole standing on the massive steps, in a company of five other women, all dressed to the nines. It must have been a premiere night of one play or another – Waverly knew that Paris drew together a diverse creative community and was teeming with artistic life but found herself incapable of following the most recent trends and fads.

Nicole looked stunning in a formal black tuxedo and Waverly slowed her steps to appreciate this attractive visual further. She wasn’t worried about being caught staring – with her latest resolution, she would simply just smile and wave at Nicole from across the street.

The woman standing on Nicole’s immediate right, dressed in a flowy yet form-fitting golden dress, laughed at something loudly and latched onto Nicole’s arm. Waverly – a step from being outraged on Nicole’s behalf for such a blatant disrespect for her bodily autonomy – had to swallow her fury, as Nicole smiled and covered the woman’s hand with her own.

_Oh._

Waverly bit her lip uncertainly. “Dr. Curie, isn’t that Nicole across the street?” she ventured, hoping to get some additional, unsolicited information.

“Yes, indeed it is.”

They kept walking.

Sighing deeply, Waverly knew she’d have to dig deeper to assuage her curiosity, “And the women with Nicole – who are they? I think I recognize Baroness van Zuylen…”

Dr. Curie slowed their steps even further, looked at Waverly, and reprimanded, “Be less curious about people and more curious about ideas, Waverly.”

Well, that helped bugger all.

Something in Waverly’s expression must have convinced Dr. Curie to continue nonetheless, even if she sounded less than thrilled to do so, “If my eyes are not deceiving me, the two women standing across from Nicole are Natalie Barney and Romaine Brooks – both are American émigrés and artists; it may well be Ms. Barney’s play they are here to see tonight.”

Waverly nodded politely, even if her interests were fully focused on one particular person in the group.

“Standing with Baroness van Zuylen is her long-term… companion… Renée Vivien, a British poet. I suppose it is good seeing her out and about – poor thing was not in good health last I heard.”

The woman on Nicole’s arm stood up on her toes and whispered something in her ear, earning a chuckle from Nicole. Waverly and Dr. Curie were now directly opposite the group and she had a better vantage point to regard Nicole’s companion more closely. She was… gorgeous and effortlessly elegant; her golden dress was spread behind her in a long tail; her head was adorned by a sophisticated hat. The woman’s behavior was openly coquettish towards Nicole, even though they were standing on a very public, very busy street. Neither one of the other two couples – and Waverly could tell that they were in fact couples – displayed their affection this openly. Paris was known for its social progressiveness and tolerance, especially towards its artistic inhabitants, yet flaunting certain _proclivities_ in public was still not without its consequences. What sort of a woman did not care about her reputation? _A woman who perhaps had none left_ , Waverly thought bitterly.

“And the woman next to Nicole?” Waverly couldn’t wait a minute longer.

“That will be Duchess de Gramont.”

A… a duchess. Waverly had to begrudgingly admit that maybe the woman had plenty of reputation _left_ to uphold – her social status was just high enough to put her above petty codes and conventions.

The woman was not only breathtaking but also a part of the highest French aristocracy. A penniless orphan from London, who was Waverly to compete with all _that_? What could she offer Nicole? How could she entice her? From where she stood, looking at the group of wealthy exuberant women, the whole idea of Nicole ever being interested in her seemed absolutely preposterous now.

 _What about the almost-kiss in the Gardens? I didn’t imagine that, did I?_ came a little voice in Waverly’s head.

Perhaps not, but Mr. Svane did warn her about Nicole, told her in no uncertain terms what a womanizer Nicole was, how her reputation was notorious throughout the city of Paris. Maybe Waverly was just another conquest for Nicole, a toy to play with when she was bored in Dr. Curie’s household.

As they passed the Odéon Theatre and the walls of the Luxemburg Gardens came into view, Waverly felt stubborn tears fill her eyes. Not wanting Dr. Curie to notice, she hastily cleaned her cheeks and feigned illness, “I just got an awful headache, Dr. Curie. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be a pleasant dinner guest and shall retire for the evening in the solitude of my own apartment instead.” Not waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and headed towards the Seine, purposefully avoiding the Odéon Theatre on her way back.

~

A pile of a dry white powder spilled on the floor from a broken beaker seemed to ridicule Waverly and all her efforts. She was on the verge of tears, ready to kick the shattered beaker in frustration.

“Remember that success has many fathers, but failure is an orphan, Waverly. It is just some broken glass. We will try again,” Dr. Curie encouraged.

“No, no it’s not. It’s this whole process! We’ve tried the chemical separation so many times, using so many different methods over the past few months and nothing has worked!” she exploded.

Ever since Lord Kelvin, a devoted fan of Dr. Curie’s late husband, Pierre, published a letter to the editor on the front page of the London Times in August last year, Dr. Curie has spent all of her time trying to disprove his theory. He claimed that radium was not an element but rather a compound consisting of lead and five helium atoms. Such outrageous statements threatened the existence of the entire field of radiochemistry, threatened the existence of this very laboratory.

The main problem was that radium behaved chemically very much the same as barium did – making it virtually impossible to separate the two using chemical reactions. Dr. Curie had initially proven the existence of radium by painstakingly processing kilograms of pitchblende ore through a series of precipitation reactions that generated a powder that was increasingly more radioactive. The catch? No one has been able to produce pure radium in its elemental form, allowing lunatics like Lord Kelvin to come up with the most far-fetched hypotheses.

Waverly was irritable and short-tempered not only because of the failed experiments, and she hastily apologized, “I’m sorry, Dr. Curie. I just feel like…” She slid down onto the floor next to the shattered beaker. “I feel like we’re going in circles instead of trying something new.”

She knew she shouldn’t allow her personal life to affect her work, yet here she was, sitting on the floor, ready to cry over some spilled radium chloride.

“Yes, Waverly, but the chemical precipitation allowed us to identify radium in the first place. This is the nature of the trial and error approach. Better a sparrow in hand than a pigeon on the roof.”

Working with Dr. Curie over the past few months, Waverly has gotten somewhat accustomed to her curious sayings; still, she had no idea what those birds had to do with the dilemma they were in. If only Hertha was here to motivate her, to talk out the kinks and snags with…

_Hertha!_

“Dr. Curie, why don’t we try using electrolysis? If we dissolve radium chloride powder that you managed to precipitate and apply an electrical current through the solution, we should be able to attract the ions to the opposing electrodes!”

“As I said, better a sparrow…” seeing Waverly’s disheartened expression, Dr. Curie changed her approach, “Convince me this could work, Waverly; prepare a detailed testing plan outlying the proposed mechanism and we will go over it next week.”

“Really?” Waverly looked up from the floor.

“Really. Now go fetch more beakers. If we have none left in the stockroom, there should still be some in the old shed Pierre and I used in the past,” Dr. Curie dismissed her with a barely perceptible proud smile on her lips.

~

As she approached the shed, Waverly noticed a red motor-car, much the same as Nicole’s, parked up front. Feeling betrayed and humiliated – admittedly not entirely within reason – Waverly was not in the mood for that particular encounter quite yet.

About to retreat and come up with an excuse for coming back empty-handed, Waverly heard a small explosion, followed by somebody opening the shed window to let a cloud of black smoke out.

“Nicole, this is madness. The modern proletarian class doesn't carry out its struggle according to a plan set out in some book or theory; the modern workers' struggle is a part of history, a part of social progress, and in the middle of history, in the middle of progress, in the middle of the fight, we learn how we must fight...” she heard a feminine voice lecture Nicole, punctuated by coughing. Still irate yet exceedingly curious, Waverly snuck up closer to the shed.

“And this fight must now involve armed rebellion, Rosa! Tomasz said…” Nicole’s yelling was interrupted.

“Tomasz? Tomasz is a delusional fool who is making you build explosives and will willingly raise his arm against our brethren in Russia, simply because they are Russian. Don’t you see, Nicole, that to topple the tsarist and western imperialists, we must _all_ work together? Not devolve into a bunch of warring savages? Please, come to the Worker’s Day gathering with me on May Day. We secured a warehouse on rue de Bercy to commemorate the Haymarket massacre and to discuss the future of the worker’s movement. We took every precaution to keep it confidential – there is no chance for authorities to make an appearance,” the woman seemed to be pleading with Nicole.

Not entirely understanding what was happening, yet clearly alarmed at hearing words such as _explosives_ , and _armed_ , and _rebellion_ , Waverly decided to interrupt this meeting, whatever it was. She marched inside the shed.

Momentarily dumbstruck that the Curies used to work inside this dilapidated hut with broken windows and an obviously non-existing ventilation, if the thick smoke still lingering inside was anything to go by, Waverly failed to deliver the scolding she had intended to. When she noticed the state Nicole was in, it derailed her train of thought further, bringing about a wave of concern. Nicole’s face was covered in black soot as was the expensive looking shirt she was wearing, with the sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow, exposing her strong forearms; her hair was disheveled, her hands were shaking.

“Waverly?” Nicole asked at the same moment as Waverly inquired, “Are you all right?”

“It would appear you have a private matter to attend to. I will be going. Please, consider what I said, Nicole,” the woman excused herself and, with a confident nod, left the shed.

“What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!” Waverly closed the distance between them, once the shed door was closed. She took Nicole’s face in her palms with the sole intention of looking it over for a sign of injury. How could Nicole be so reckless, so foolish, tinkering with things she evidently had no idea about, if the smell of unreacted potassium nitrate was any indication. Waverly ran a soothing thumb over Nicole’s face making sure there were no traces of blood.

“Waverly, this is nothing,” Nicole tried to assuage her anxiety, placing a comforting hand over Waverly’s palm.

“This is _not_ nothing! You could have bloody died!” The past week of accumulated anger and confusion finally bubbled up to the surface and there would be no survivors of _this_ explosion. “First you shamelessly flirt with me, then you go razzle-dazzle someone else, and now you almost get yourself killed?! I’ll tell you wha…” Waverly’s rant was interrupted by Nicole’s mouth on hers.

The kiss was slow, non-demanding; Nicole’s lips were barely touching her own, barely skimming the surface, as if Waverly was something precious, something fragile that needed to be cherished. Waverly knew very well what a load of bollocks that was; it vexed her further, knowing whose company Nicole spent last Friday night with, yet here she was, acting as if Waverly was someone special.

She roughly pushed Nicole against the closest workbench and, standing on her toes, deepened the kiss. Nipping at Nicole’s bottom lip earned Waverly a surprised gasp, which she used to slide her tongue into Nicole’s mouth. As their tongues met, gliding against each other, hot, wet, insistent, Waverly felt Nicole’s hands grab her hips urgently and her knee fall between Waverly’s legs.

Getting lost in the scorching heat of her own arousal, Waverly rolled her hips forward, to a delightful shaky exhale from Nicole. The woman disconnected their lips, trying to catch her breath, yet she was still visibly hungry for Waverly’s skin and attacked her neck instead, licking, sucking, biting. Nicole’s left hand clutched Waverly’s hips, aiding in their languid rocking motion; her right hand skillfully untangled Waverly’s hair and raked her nails through it.

Waverly’s knees buckled at the sensation and she could barely just hear herself murmuring something incoherently. Her trembling fingers unbuttoned Nicole’s shirt, revealing glorious naked skin underneath it. She ran her fingers over the exposed flesh and was hypnotized by the responding shiver and a ripple of Nicole’s muscles. Waverly was already drunk on it, absolutely intoxicated by the feeling on Nicole’s naked body beneath her fingertips. Her left hand exploring the heavy flesh of Nicole’s breast, she ducked her right hand lower, fumbling, seeking access into her pants.

Panting heavily, Nicole nearly growled and switched their position, swiftly lifting Waverly onto the workbench. If her brain was slow to catch up with the events, her body was not; Waverly’s knees fell open instantaneously and she dragged Nicole in for another bruising kiss, their bodies pressing snuggly together again. Sitting on the counter provided Waverly with a considerable advantage, as she used Nicole’s shoulder to lift herself up and arch her center against Nicole’s exposed abdomen, seeking friction – wanton and lightheaded.

Waverly whimpered at a loss of contact, utterly confused why Nicole’s tongue was not on her, why Nicole’s body was not pressing deliciously against her molten need. She opened her eyes to a marvelous sight of Nicole sinking to her knees between her legs.

Her skirts bunched up, Waverly reclined her body, threw her head back, and supported herself on the surface of the workbench on her shaky arms. “Oh my god,” escaped her bruised lips.

The frenetic pace slowed down considerably. Nicole kissed her clothed calves and ran a teasing hand up her thighs, tortuously slow, never venturing close to where Waverly needed her the most, never attempting to remove her undergarments.

She heard a rasped, “Waverly,” whispered and tormented like a prayer to a banished and long-forgotten god. She opened her eyes and looked down at Nicole, Nicole whose eyes were shining brightly and warmly, Nicole who – nuzzling her thigh – gazed up at her with unadulterated devotion, reverence, and awe.

The woman kneeling on the dirty ground in front of her had such an open, vulnerable, yet elated expression on her soot-laced face, it shocked Waverly right out of the lust-muddled craze. Allowed this little reprieve, her brain was finally catching up.

 _This_ was not what Waverly wanted, not what she needed. She wanted to have her brain finally shut off for one bloody minute, she wanted to forget all the details of her miserable life, of feeling homesick, of feeling inadequate. She needed to feel desired, needed to be taken, needed to be used.

 _This_ was not _that_. Not with Nicole slowing things down and being considerate and sweet, looking up at her as if she hung up the moon. _God_ , and for what? Waverly wished Nicole would finally drop the pretense and fuck her senseless – wasn’t that exactly what she was notorious for throughout Paris?

Glancing at the woman at her feet, her traitorous brain also briefly wondered who would be the unlucky woman tasked with laundering and pressing Nicole’s slacks, now clearly soiled and stretched out where she was kneeling on the dirty floor.

Waverly frowned.

That thought broke the camel’s back. She pushed on Nicole’s shoulders, hopped off the bench, and, trying to straighten her dress, made a beeline for the door.

Pausing by the exit, she offered, “I can’t do this,” without looking back at Nicole. Tears filled her eyes when she didn’t receive a word in return, when Nicole didn’t even attempt to stop her.

She stormed out of the shed, now certain beyond any doubt that this was all a silly pursuit to Nicole, that she was yet another hopeless girl who fell for Nicole Haught’s charms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better a sparrow in hand than a pigeon on the roof – a Polish idiom; same meaning as “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush”.
> 
> Lord Kevin was not the only person out there questioning the existence of radium (and the phenomenon of radiation in general), but his claims published in the London Times were one of the most prominent. Curiously, the Curies didn’t face as much opposition to their theories when Pierre was still alive.
> 
> The Curies actually did work for years in a shack that was in such a pitiful state, my description doesn’t do it justice. It was described by a German chemist, Wilhelm Ostwald, as “a cross between a stable and a potato shed.” In fact, when he was first shown the premises, he assumed that it was “a practical joke.”
> 
> Natalie Barney and Romaine Brooks:  
> Natalie was an American playwright, poet and novelist who lived as an expatriate in Paris.  
> Barney's salon was held in Paris for more than 60 years and brought together writers and artists from around the world. She worked to promote writing by women and formed a "Women's Academy" in response to the all-male French Academy while also giving support and inspiration to male writers from Remy de Gourmont to Truman Capote.  
> She was openly a lesbian and began publishing love poems to women under her own name as early as 1900, considering scandal as "the best way of getting rid of nuisances" (i.e., attention from men). She opposed monogamy and had many overlapping long and short-term relationships, including on-and-off romances with poet Renée Vivien, Duchess Élisabeth de Gramont, and a 50-year relationship with painter Romaine Brooks. Honestly, if you drew an “L Word” chart of the aughts in Paris, Natalie would have been in the center of it – an early 20th century Shane, if you will.  
> Her life and love affairs served as inspiration for many novels, including The Well of Loneliness, one of the most famous lesbian novels.  
> Romaine was an American painter who worked mostly in Paris and Capri. She specialized in portraiture and ignored contemporary artistic trends such as Cubism and Fauvism. She is best known for her images of women in androgynous or masculine clothes, including her self-portrait of 1923, which is her most widely reproduced work.
> 
> Here’s the two of them when they were young (Natalie on the left, Romaine on the right). What are they even wearing? I love it!  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> And here they are many years later (around 1935):  
> 


	7. May, 1907

_ May, 1907 _

“In summary, these are the postulates that we’ve all agreed on so far,” a young man read from a piece of paper held in his trembling hand. “Number 1: reduction of the length of a working day from 12 to 10 hours a day.”

The May Day gathering was a tremendous success – the warehouse room was filled with a few hundred people, with representatives from nearly every industry and delegates from every French region present; there were coal miners and textile industry workers, matchmakers and construction workers, domestic servants and railroad workers. Nicole was glad she came – supporting the labor movement from the comforts of her apartment was one thing; but this? Listening to the real-life stories of workers, stories of their daily struggles and simple demands for a better life, was truly transformational.

The young man on the stage continued, “Number 2: establishment of pension plans to support the sufferers of occupational diseases – such as the phossy jaw of the matchmakers or the black lung of the coal miners – and the families of victims of work-related deaths.”

“Hear, hear!” came a holler from the crowd with multiple murmurs of support. Occupational hazards of certain professions were well known, yet Nicole had never wondered if they could be eliminated – and if not, what could be done to support those affected by them. The idea of establishing pension plans that would in turn provide health care and financial support to those impacted by work incidents seemed painfully obvious.

“Finally, Number 3: establishment of the rights to unionize, to a collective bargain, and a legal right to strike.”

“Gentlemen. Gentlemen, if I may…” a voice from somewhere in the front interrupted – quite impertinent, seeing how a third of the meeting leaders on stage were female. The man got to his feet and his oversized fur coat – _who wears a fur coat in May?_ – gave him away as none other than Robert Svane.

What was Robert doing here? And more importantly, how did he learn about this meeting? Her pulse thumping rapidly, Nicole got a queasy feeling in her stomach.

He checked his pocket watch, smiled menacingly, and continued, “Some of you may recognize me from working in my match factories – name’s Robert Svane.” An alarmed whisper traveled across the room. “I came here with the good intentions of trying to show you the other side of the coin before you take your… _postulates_ … to the government and inadvertently ruin your lives. Take your postulate number 1 – if we reduce your work day to 10 hours, I’m sure you’ll demand 8, just like the Americans did. With my factories running 24 hours a day, instead of having two shifts, I’ll now have to cover three. Making the same amount of matches as before but having to pay more people, what do you think will happen to your wages? Are you sure you’re willing to give up half of your paychecks so that you can lie lazily on your sofa in the afternoon?” he spoke slowly, annunciating every word, as if he was addressing a group of children.

A murmur passed through the crowd, some sadly nodded their heads, some muttered curses under their breath. The room was slowly coming to life, becoming a disorderly mass that could easily explode if provided a spark.

Robert waited for the worst of the reaction to pass. “Your postulate number 2 makes even less sense. I’ll admit, as I built my empire on match making, that we didn’t fully realize the health effects of white phosphorus. Now that we know, we replaced it with the red variety, which is perfectly safe for the workers. Are you saying I should be responsible for covering health costs of somebody who worked in my factory, say, 10 years ago and developed a phossy jaw? I will tell you right now that as factory owners, if we were to become liable in perpetuity, we would be forced to recover those costs by cutting your paychecks even further.”

That statement was met with outright hostility – some women were up from their seats, swearing loudly in Robert’s direction, some men rolled up their sleeves. Just last year, 1099 miners died in a single explosion in the Courrières mine – the only support the victims and their families got afterwards came from a public fund collecting donations throughout France; neither the mine owners nor the government contributed to the fund. Things had to change and they had to change soon; people meekly surrendered to 72-hour work weeks and devoting their entire lives to industrial behemoths, yet many drew the line at the gruesome mining accidents and horrid disfigurations caused by diseases like the phossy jaw.

Nicole got up from her seat and started making her way through the disquieted room; whatever his end-goal was, someone needed to stop Robert before he turned this peaceful gathering into the next Haymarket affair.

She was maybe six or eight rows behind him when he continued. “And finally, please hear me out,” he tried to hush the crowd. “Finally, there is the ridiculous notion of the legal right to strike. You see…”

A group of armed men in uniforms barged through the main double door and interrupted Robert, “Sûreté Nationale. This is an illegal gathering! Remain calm and allow the officers of the law to question you.”

Regardless of the attempt of calming the crowd, all hell broke loose. Frightened, people tried to storm the double door now blocked by the police who – in turn – pulled out their batons and started using them in the name of law and order.

Robert looked at his pocket watch again. “They’re early,” he spit angrily and started for the side door, not ten steps away from his seat.

 _The cunning bastard!_ Nicole was just a step behind him when she noticed a petite woman, her head obscured by a scarf, being dragged outside by Robert. _Merde alors, it couldn’t possibly be_ …

As they left the warehouse through the inconspicuous side-door that closed behind them unnoticed, Nicole yelled, “Svane, you scoundrel! The rights that you deny those people – the men, women, and children who slave away in your factories – should be considered the most basic human rights! How dare you call the police on a peaceful gathering!”

A solitary lamp hanging above the side-door bathed them in a dim, yellowish light, barely strong enough for Nicole to distinguish his features. Robert turned around, looking at her with a roguish grin. “Get off your high horse, Haught. Your family would be nothing without centuries of subservient serf labor. I find it… what’s the word? I find it _cute_ that you chose this to be your latest toy project. Are you latest… _conquests_ … proving so dissatisfying in bed that you’re looking elsewhere for entertainment?”

Nicole didn’t take the bait, although her blood boiled at his taunt. “How did you even know about this meeting?”

“Tut-tut-tut, Nicole, don’t be so dense,” he put his arm around the woman who had hidden behind his back and brought her forcibly forward – and into the light. “A little birdie told me _all_ about your clandestine pursuits.” A Cheshire smile transformed his face almost to a point of a caricature.

Looking down at her feet, Waverly wrung her hands in a nervous gesture.

“Waverly?” Nicole asked, although she didn’t know what it was she was actually asking. Did she hope Waverly would deny her involvement? Repudiate her association with Robert? Laugh and say it was all just a silly misunderstanding?

When the woman finally looked Nicole in the eye, there were no questions left – the guilt and shame swarmed Waverly’s irises.

“Oh, _Waverly_ …” whispering, Nicole felt a sharp pang of pity and sympathy for the girl. Robert Svane was a skillful manipulator, as demonstrated by hundreds of wealthy investors he continued to defraud every year through his business schemes. But Waverly? Waverly was _different_. Nicole knew from Marie that she was Robert’s laundry-maid yet she couldn’t imagine that he had enough access, enough time, to have already captured her in his sticky web of lies and deception.

“How is Shae?” Robert’s words brought her back to the issue at hand. “Last I heard, she was living a peaceful life near Bordeaux with her _husband_ and two beautiful children.”

Nicole’s eyes snapped back to Waverly. She swallowed heavily. Was that what _this_ was? Was that why Waverly stormed out of Marie’s shed two weeks ago, leaving Nicole in a broken, crying heap on the floor? _Merde alors_ , how could she be so stupid, so naïve to trust somebody associated with Robert again? Nicole had surrendered all the control to Waverly, entrusted her with all the power, only to have it be reciprocated with deceit.

“ _What you are is unnatural… You disgust me… I never loved you…_ ” Shae’s last words to her – vile and unnecessarily cruel – surfaced, unbidden.

Shrewd as he was, Robert knew a victory when he saw one. With one last vicious smile in Nicole’s direction, he grabbed Waverly’s upper arm and started off in the direction of the railroad.

Defeated and humiliated, Nicole walked in the opposite direction, towards the Seine, where she parked her Type Y. All she wanted to do in this instant was to lie down on the concrete pavement, roll up in a ball, and cry her eyes out. Being rejected by Waverly, mere moments before she was ready to make love to her, to bare her body and soul for this woman to take apart piece by piece, was painful enough. Nicole accepted it and was ready to talk it out, to make sure whatever steps they took in the future were in the direction they both felt safe and comfortable with. Learning how deep Robert’s influence and control over Waverly ran, however, cut much deeper; it brought up the feelings of betrayal, shame, and ridicule Nicole had buried long ago.

“You better put that baton down, son – you don’t know who you’re dealing with,” Nicole heard Robert’s words just as she was about to take a right-hand turn to where her auto-mobile was faithfully waiting. She turned around to a picture of two gendarmes cornering Robert and Waverly, batons at the ready and crazed expressions on their faces. Power did strange things to men.

“My name is Robert Svane and I am the person that notified the authorities about this illegal gathering,” Robert tried for the most assertive tone yet his explanations fell on deaf ears.

“Yeah, and I’m Napoleon Bonaparte,” one of the gendarmes chuckled, while the other one grabbed Waverly by her waste.

Nicole could now see her Type Y not 30 meters away. She should just keep walking, get in the auto-mobile, and drive away. She owed Waverly nothing, and certainly even less than that to Robert.

“Let me go, you brute! Let me go!” Waverly screamed, her voice breaking over the high-pitched shriek.

In the end, Nicole didn’t really have a choice, did she?

She darted back to the commotion just as Robert was inelegantly wrestling with the gendarme. The man holding Waverly tossed her to the ground and pulled out his baton. “You looking for trouble, boy?”

Looking down at the simple tweed suit she put on this evening to appear less ostentatious, to fit in with the crowd, Nicole could see why the man would misgender her in the weak light. Without a second thought, she took a swing and punched him straight in the jaw with a mean right hook. A few boxing lessons she took a couple of years back sure did come in handy.

His companion pushed Robert away and focused on Nicole instead, waiting for his partner to come to. Silhouettes of two more officers came into view at the end of the long street, sealing Nicole’s resolve.

“Here, take my Renault, Svane, and drive Waverly to safety,” sidestepping an attempted punch, Nicole tossed her keys at Robert. “It’s parked just around the corner.”

Not that Nicole expected any better but Robert didn’t offer to stay and fight, nor did he even thank her, before he took off in the direction of her auto-mobile, leaving Waverly behind. The terrified girl looked at Nicole with something akin to pleading on her face and Nicole made a mistake of getting lost in her eyes. Damn her and her beautiful, expressive eyes. The moment of lost concentration cost Nicole a blow to her stomach.

“Waverly, run!” she coughed, bent over in half, cradling her bruised ribs. A swift swing of the baton that came onto her exposed back brought Nicole to her knees. The last thing she saw was Waverly’s running form, disappearing into the shadows of the side alley, before everything went blank.

~

A sight of Footman Nedley, standing at the end of a long corridor beyond the steel bars, welcomed her, as Nicole limped out of her cell. She hasn’t seen a mirror in two days but Nedley’s face, contorted in a frown of pity and repugnance, told it all.

“I posted bail as soon as they let me,” he sounded apologetic. “All charges against you were dropped but the meeting’s organizers will serve a month in prison.”

What a crooked system they were forced to work within.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” Nicole was truly grateful, if a bit emotional, to see that the person to bail her out was also someone who technically didn’t owe her anything outside of his work duties.

They trudged through the convoluted corridors of the jail painstakingly slowly.

“Your father was not happy about the news. You can expect a visit from him upon his return from the French Alps next month,” Nedley tried to make a conversation, pretending that their leisurely pace caused by Nicole’s injuries was nothing out of the ordinary.

“Good. I live to disappoint.”

A one-horse fiacre waited for them outside the building.

“Where is my Type Y, Nedley?” Nicole didn’t mean to sound accusing or demanding but the last couple of days got the better of her.

Surprised with her tone, Nedley let the silence envelop them for long enough to make Nicole feel contrite and uncomfortable.

“I’m sor…” she attempted but was immediately waved off.

“The auto-mobile is parked at Madame Curie’s. She insisted you pay her a visit today.”

As they climbed onto the bench of the carriage, Nicole immediately dropped her head against the soft upholstered back rest with a relieved sigh. The short walk took more out of her than she could have ever imagined. “I’ll see her sometime next week. I’m exceptionally exhausted and all I need today is a two-hour long hot bath.”

“I’m afraid it sounded urgent. We both know that if you don’t go and see her today, she’ll come to the townhouse. I will not fend off an angry Madame Curie – not again, Nicole,” Nedley sounded genuinely scared.

The way home from jail was thankfully a short ordeal, yet the second the fiacre took the right turn on rue d’Ulm, Nicole knew she wasn’t going home – not yet.

“I’ll see you at the apartment soon,” Nedley didn’t sound remorseful at all for dropping her off on Marie’s stoop in this state.

Nicole limped a few steps and poked her head around the corner to verify that her baby was unharmed – and sure enough, there she was in all her glory, parked on the side of the house. Releasing a breath of tension, Nicole climbed the few short steps that led to Marie’s apartment and rang the bell.

Irène opened the door – _when would that kid learn not do open the doors on her own?!_ – and looked at her curiously, “Aunt Nicole, what happened to your face?”

“Oh,” Nicole touched her cheek reflexively, hissing at the pain the gesture provoked. Her right eye was almost shut closed from the feel of it. Deciding to kneel down, she said, “You know how I always tell you to enjoy things in the fullest and fight for what you believe in?”

Her large inquisitive eyes somehow bigger than usual, more eager if a bit frightened, Irène nodded solemnly and kept examining her face.

“Well, I guess this is a time for another lesson. Sometimes – even when you fight for something you believe in, something that you know deep in your heart to be right – sometimes, you lose.”

“And you lost a fight like that?” Irène asked, for the first time in years sounding younger than she was.

Nicole just nodded, trying to keep the stubborn tears at bay.

A gasp from the hallway brought Nicole’s eyes up. Standing in a halo of May sunshine filtering through the windows, was Waverly Earp, covering her mouth with her hands.

Nicole grunted getting up to her feet. “Mademoiselle Earp,” she greeted Waverly politely but any further exchange was halted by Ève.

“A’nt Nicole?” Ève asked, uncertain, hiding behind Waverly’s skirt. Her eyes filled with tears, her chin quivered.

“It’s me, ladybug,” Nicole tried in the softest voice but it was too late. Ève broke into mournful tears, causing Irène to look up at her in distress and worry.

Waverly tried to calm the toddler but Nicole knew it was pointless. Ève never cried. “Irène, I promise you I’m okay. I know my face is bruised and you may be worried but I’m okay, do you understand?” She waited for a nod, which came much less assured than normally. “Now, can you take Ève and go find Ms. Zosia? I think she could use some hot milk and Ms. Zosia’s sunny disposition.”

Given a task, Irène hesitated only momentarily before she nodded again. Surprised, Nicole felt two skinny arms wrap around her waist. “I’m glad you’re okay, Aunt Nicole,” came a mumbled whisper from Irène.

Moved by the unusual display of affection, Nicole petted her head softly, cautiously, as if she was dealing with a wild doe.

Irène took her little sister’s hand and walked them into the depths of the apartment, in search for Ms. Zosia, leaving Nicole and Waverly in a heavy, charged silence.

“Nicole, I… uhm…”

“Waverly, please,” Nicole’s tone was short, almost sharp. The two nights she spent in jail did nothing to alleviate her hurt – both physical and emotional. The dark, damp cell crawled with regret, desolation, loneliness.

Betrayal.

Reluctant to show any sign of weakness, Nicole was in the end forced to lean her achy body against the closest credenza. “It’s time to drop the pretenses, wouldn’t you agree? You work for Svane.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, I do,” Waverly frowned and opened her arms, palms up in a confused gesture. “I’m his laundry-maid.”

A mirthless laughter escaped Nicole. Is this what she projected into the world – an image of someone so naïve, so gullible, so easily manipulated that she’d fall for the same trap twice? On second thought – _she did_ – so she couldn’t blame Robert for trying.

“Yes, you certainly are that, but also so much more, no? You wormed your way into my heart, Waverly…” her cold voice cracked, yet she collected herself instantaneously. Waverly needn’t know how much power she wielded over Nicole. “You gained my trust and sold it to Svane. It was a fair transaction, I suppose, and I hope it was worth the inconvenience of _associating_ with me.”

The words forging deep in the darkest corners of her shattered dignity were so much more spiteful. Fueled by the twin sisters of sorrow and anger, Nicole was on the verge of likening Waverly’s actions to _cheap whoring_. An unlikely strike of serendipity staved off Nicole’s atrocious words, which died on her tongue, leaving an acrid taste in her mouth. It also denied Waverly a chance to respond.

“Nicole, mother of god!” Marie stood at the door to her study. “Waverly told me about what happened. How could you be so foolish? So irresponsible? Attending a surreptitious proletarian gathering!”

Of course Waverly shared that with Marie as well. Nicole couldn’t help but send the woman an accusing look. Reporting to Robert had at least some financial benefits – Nicole assumed – but what did Waverly have to gain by tattling on her to Marie?

“And just look at what they did to you! I hope you learned your lesson and will cease associating with these people.”

Nicole was nothing if not stubborn, “I will, in fact, continue to work alongside _those people_ , Marie. The Polish independence may well be hinging on an international worker’s revolution and I intend to support it in whatever capacity I can.”

“Revolution? Revolu…” Marie was nearly left speechless – a feat not easily achieved. “Nicole, your uncle died in the January Uprising; your family was forced to flee their motherland! They would have never supported another armed rebellion. Your mother…”

Considering the week she just had, the mention of her late mother was too much for Nicole. “You were my mother’s friend, Marie, but do not lecture me on what she would have done. It’s been over 40 years – and what was achieved in that time through non-violent means? The times have changed, the old ways are not working. The socialist revolution will spread throughout Europe, giving Poland the chance to throw off the shackles of oppression once and for all!” Nicole didn’t often lose her temper, yet when she did, it was explosive.

Panting in anger and fatigue, Nicole turned to Waverly, who stood there, silently observing the exchange with bewilderment. Nicole waited for the other shoe to drop – surely, Waverly had also told Marie about her failed experiments with building an explosive in Curies’ old shed.

The shoe, however, never did drop.

“Nicole, I understand your frustration – I really do. The fastest way to liberation had always seemed to lead through violence. But I beg you to consider what price there is to pay, price of lost lives, of blood on your hands. Do not jump at the sun with a hoe, Nicole. Use your brains, your charisma, and your social status for good – _that_ is what Anna would have done.”

Nicole deflated.

Seeing that all the fight had left her, Marie – typically reserved and constrained – approached her and threw Nicole’s arm over her own shoulder, supporting her weight.

“You can argue with me about this later. Now, let me take care of you. Learning of your… _misadventures_ … Ms. Zosia prepared the traditional Polish chicken noodle soup.” Marie walked her over to the sitting room and deposited her body on the sofa. It was nice to be taken care of, _mothered_.

“I’ll go now,” came a quiet, uncertain voice from the doorway.

Nicole didn’t even notice that Waverly was still there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To jump at the sun with a hoe – A Polish proverb; equivalent to “To bite off more than you can chew”
> 
> The May Day and the Haymarket affair:  
> The Haymarket affair (or massacre) was the aftermath of a bombing that took place at a labor demonstration on May 4, 1886, at Haymarket Square in Chicago. It began as a peaceful rally in support of workers striking for an 8-hour day and in reaction to the killing of several workers the previous day by the police. An unknown person threw a dynamite bomb at the police as they acted to disperse the public meeting. The bomb blast and ensuing gunfire resulted in the deaths of seven police officers and at least four civilians; dozens of others were wounded. The trial that followed was a joke, but 7 people were sentenced to death. Many people associated with the American labor movement believed that the Pinkertons were responsible for making and throwing the bomb at the police, since the agency had a history of secretly infiltrating labor groups and using violent methods of breaking strikes.  
> In 1904, the socialists declared the International Worker’s Day on May 1st to commemorate the Haymarket affair. The date also corresponds to an ancient European spring festival and is often referred to as May Day, as well as Worker’s Day or Labor Day.  
> Interestingly, the US, Canada, and Australia are the main countries that do not celebrate Labor Day on May 1st – most of Eurasia, most of Africa, and both Central and South Americas do.


	8. June, 1907

_ June, 1907 _

_No, no, no._ _Not another failed experiment._ Waverly looked hopelessly at her laboratory setup – which she thought that maybe, finally, would work. There was a definite layer of a metallic sheen coating her cathode and that would be enough of a breakthrough, yet a mere minute later Waverly was in despair, noticing the losses on the anode’s surface. She wasn’t isolating radium from the solution – she was dissolving the anode and precipitating it on the cathode.

_What a rookie mistake._

Dr. Curie had approved of Waverly’s test plan and allowed her to go through the trial and error of the experimentation. Waverly just wished the _error_ part of the whole process would finally start to diminish.

She diligently noted down the testing conditions, observed results, and the preliminary conclusions, omitting the part where she _deduced_ that she was the common factor in all of those failures and would inevitably end up disappointing Dr. Curie and losing her trust.

_Trust._

Not much of it was left for her lately and Waverly knew she needed to preserve, cherish, and protect what remained of it at all cost.

“Sacrificial anode?” Waverly startled at Dr. Curie’s voice.

“Oh… uhm… Not on purpose.”

“Try using an inert electrode, like mercury for instance,” Dr. Curie suggested. “And since I am here, I have some good news to share.”

Waverly put down her pen and closed her notebook to indicate that she was listening. Her pity party could wait.

“About half a year ago a wealthy donor set up a scholarship fund to support research staff at my facility. The legal aspects of establishing it took much longer than expected but the scholarship is finally available and I have decided to award the first round of it to you.”

“A… a scholarship?” And there Waverly was not a minute ago thinking what a complete fraud she was.

“Yes. You have a brilliant brain, Waverly, and you have already helped move along half a dozen experiments we are conducting. You are instrumental in the ongoing success of this facility,” with a kind, warm smile adorning her face, Dr. Curie commended Waverly, already used to her lack of confidence and her ever-present feelings of inadequacy.

“Wow… Thank you, Dr. Curie.”

“It is the least that you deserve and I hope that one day we will be able to provide that level of compensation to every person in this facility. It will roughly triple your wages, hopefully allowing you to abandon other employment avenues that you were forced to engage in in the past.”

_Triple_ her wages! Providence has never graced Waverly this much!

On second thought… Maybe it wasn’t exactly _providence_ this time either…

“You said _a wealthy donor_ – was it Nicole?” It would make sense, wouldn’t it? She didn’t exactly know how it would benefit Nicole – maybe just the fact that Waverly would likely stop working for Mr. Svane was enough, or maybe there was a more deleterious end-game that she couldn’t see quite yet. Why would Nicole still choose to have anything to do with Waverly was beyond her comprehension, though. It was probably for the best that nothing came out of that burning attraction between them – Waverly knew she was undeserving of Nicole’s attention and it would have all crumbled down sooner or later.

“The donor wished to remain anonymous,” Dr. Curie evaded the question skillfully.

It wasn’t a _no_ though.

“So it _was_ Nicole.”

She was such an arse for passing the information about the worker’s rights meeting on to Mr. Svane – Waverly’s mistake became quickly apparent to her as the events of that evening unfolded. If the scholarship was some sophisticated plan of getting back at her, Waverly would take it on the chin; she probably deserved much worse than Nicole – sweet, considerate Nicole – would ever be able to dish. If it wasn’t a retribution, her mind would quietly continue to punish Waverly in the darkness of her room at night, regardless.

If Waverly hadn’t felt bad enough immediately after the busted gathering, seeing Nicole’s bruised face and her defeated posture at Dr. Curie’s a couple of days later just confirmed for her that she had judged Mr. Svane inaccurately. The details of it all were still perplexing to her – why would someone as influential and benevolent as Mr. Svane wish to impair such a suffering on others? It made Waverly question everything else she has ever heard come out of his mouth.

After a deep sigh, Dr. Curie admitted, “Yes, it was Nicole. I am only telling you this to avoid any further misunderstandings between the two of you.”

Waverly nodded thoughtfully, “I see.”

“No, I do not believe that you do.” Dr. Curie unclasped her hands to use their aid with the forthcoming explanation. “Yes, Nicole set up this scholarship but it was something we first discussed soon after it became clear I would accept the position of the Department Chair – months before either Nicole or I met you. The legal language of the agreement specifically insists that neither Nicole nor anybody in her family would hold any influence over the decision of whom the scholarship was granted to. That responsibility and privilege lies solely in my hands.”

“So Nicole didn’t know about this?” frowning and vaguely pointing at herself, Waverly was infinitely more confused now.

“I doubt she even remembers that the scholarship was to be granted soon.”

Seeing Waverly’s confounded expression, Dr. Curie shook her head in a fond exasperation and took a seat in the lab stool next to her. “Waverly… It is not my circus and not my monkeys…”

_Bloody Polish proverbs._

“…but know that Nicole is an exceptionally kind person,” Dr. Curie continued. “Yes, she is hot-headed at times and loyal to a fault – that blind loyalty will eventually cost her greatly, if she does not surround herself with people to balance and challenge that – but ultimately, she has a heart of gold. It is not too late for the two of you to reconcile. If that is something you desire, Waverly, you will need to make the first step. When Nicole was younger, someone tried to exploit her kindness and openness – it left her with a broken heart and this whole ordeal seems to have scratched those old wounds.”

Waverly gaped at the woman with a dumbfounded expression on her face. For someone who appeared persistently lost in thought and indifferent to the ordinary life events, Dr. Curie sure was painfully well-informed.

“Is this about that Shae person Mr. Svane mentioned to Nicole?” Waverly was curious.

“It is not my story to tell.”

“Then why are you telling me all this? Why now?”

“You cannot hope to build a better world without improving the individuals. Each of us must work for their own improvement, and at the same time share a general responsibility for all humanity –our particular duty being to aid those to whom we think we can be most useful." 

“And you think you can be most useful to _me_? This is all so confusing, Dr. Curie. At least with my electrolysis experiments, I try, and if I fail, I try again. Even if I fail a hundred times, it won’t matter at the end, if I’m successful. I can’t – in good conscience – apply the same trial and error method to dealing with Nicole, and risk hurting us both with each failed attempt!” Elbows on the benchtop, her forehead supported by both of her palms, Waverly felt hopeless.

“Do not despair. I think we are done with the experiments for today. Go take a walk through the Gardens, Waverly,” Dr. Curie patted her shoulder and seemingly dismissed her for the day, even though it was barely noon, and stood up from the lab stool.

“The wild roses are in a full bloom this time of year in the Gardens. They are Nicole’s favorite,” Dr. Curie threw over her shoulder, on her way through the door, as if it was entirely irrelevant to the entire conversation.

~

Walking down rue de Vaugirard, a bouquet of wild roses she just cut across the street in her shaky hands, Waverly felt ridiculous and foolish for thinking it was a good idea. Flowers were a romantic gesture and this certainly was not intended as such – she knew that first and foremost she needed to apologize; she would hope for regaining Nicole’s trust one day, but anything beyond becoming cordial acquaintances was rather unlikely at this point.

She passed Nicole’s apartment and kept walking, gathering the courage to face the consequences of her actions. Now that she thought about it, she didn’t even know Nicole’s apartment number – yet one more thing to figure out.

Terrified beyond reason, her heart thumping rapidly in her chest, Waverly gave herself one last pep talk – she needed to do this, she _owed_ Nicole that much. Turning around sharply, Waverly marched with more confidence than she felt back towards Nicole’s apartment.

Stood in front of the building, Waverly looked around uncertain – there was only one door leading in and no apartment numbers displayed on the façade. Wait… Did… Did Nicole own a _townhouse_? Even Mr. Svane’s accommodations consisted only of a two-story apartment.

Not willing to let this revelation intimidate her any further, Waverly rang the bell. The man who opened the door was middle-aged, dressed in a formal black suit, and wore an unwelcoming expression on his mustachioed face. _Probably a butler_ , Waverly thought and not knowing the first thing about the proper protocols of high society, she hid the bouquet behind her back and curtsied.

The man’s mustache twitched. Waverly hoped it was in a suppressed amusement, not in affront.

“Hi! I’m here to see Nic… uhm… Mademoiselle Haught?” she corrected herself hastily. The French were sticklers for the etiquette and a display of good manners never hurt anyone.

“I’m afraid Mademoiselle Haught is currently unavailable. If you’d leave your name and a message, I’ll make sure to pass it on,” the butler said in the most monotone, indifferent tone.

Unfortunately for him, Nicole’s voice came from inside the townhouse in the same instant he was trying to dismiss Waverly. Based on how clear it was, Waverly deducted that Nicole wasn’t far. She made a dash for it before the butler could blink, although she still caught an indistinct grumbling behind her.

Taking a chance at a large double door with an ornate glass grid, Waverly stormed into a room on the right, where she had hoped to find Nicole. She was not disappointed; wearing a freshly pressed blue shirt, Nicole was sat at the edge of an armchair, her back stiff and rigid, her hands neatly folded in her lap. There was another person in the room – an older man, sitting much more comfortably on a large sofa, his right leg crossed over his knee. Taking a puff of a large cigar held in his yellowing fingers, he sent Waverly an impassive look.

“You have a visitor, N… Mademoiselle Haught,” the butler barely just caught up with her and announced her presence pointlessly.

“Thank you, footman Nedley,” Nicole dismissed him. Waverly has never seen her this uncomfortable. Nicole appeared to be playing a part of someone Waverly hasn’t met before – she was formal, reserved, and entirely lacking the charming confidence and lightheartedness Waverly so ~~adored~~ … uhm… so _respected_ about her.

The room itself rendered Waverly speechless – it must have been Nicole’s sitting room (or would you call it a _salon_?), spreading for meters on end, with high ceilings and large windows aplenty, letting a pleasant afternoon sun in. The wooden parquets, with an intricate geometric design, shone freshly waxed. Two enormous rugs, Waverly suspected to be of oriental origins with their ornamental patterns and a vivid color scheme, lay spread on the floor. Enormous potted plants, balancing the bright reds of the rugs with their viridescence, dotted the room – Waverly has never seen plants like these before and it would have been prudent to assume they were tropical. Just a few credenzas and sideboards peppered the walls – the rest of the room’s furnishing was rather minimalistic. A second away from surveying the numerous paintings – and not to mention the crystal chandeliers! – mouth agape, Waverly realized she still hasn’t spoken a word.

“I uhm…” looking down at the pilfered bouquet in her hands, Waverly felt immeasurably more ridiculous standing in the middle of this grandiose room.

Snapping out of the sudden surprise, Nicole shot up to her feet and attempted to herd Waverly into a side room, unwittingly derailing the fast-approaching train of self-doubt and inadequacy, and preventing it from wreaking havoc in Waverly’s mind.

“Mademoiselle Earp! What a pleasant surprise. If you would be so kind as to wait for me, I will be with you momentarily,” Nicole’s words sounded distant, cautious, almost practiced.

Waverly let herself be gently shepherded away, the now-battered wild roses in her hand dropping petals along the way. Doors shot firmly behind Nicole, Waverly blinked surprised finding herself in a small yet beautiful study – with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls and an impressive mahogany desk in the center. Nicole was proving to be more of an enigma than Waverly had anticipated; she’s never considered Nicole to be an avid reader, yet the evidence to the contrary was right in front of her eyes – the shelves were brimming full with masterpieces like _Faust_ , _Crime and Punishment_ ,  _Germinal_ , _Walden_ , _Les Misérables_ , and even romantic novels like _Wuthering Heights_ , _Sense and Sensibility_ , _Jane Eyre_ , and _Don Juan_ , alongside countless books with incomprehensible titles, Waverly assumed to be in Polish.

“You always had a cheap taste in women.” The door to the study turned out to be not much of a barrier. “Is this the reason you have been so preoccupied and distant lately? I can buy her for you – hell! I can buy dozens like her – if it would dissuade you from that foolishness your mother poisoned you with.”

_Ouch._ The man’s harsh words stroke a chord and ignited all of Waverly’s insecurities anew.

“Must you be so vulgar, father?” Waverly heard Nicole say through gritted teeth.

This was Nicole’s father? Waverly stepped closer to the door.

“Wasn’t there a specific reason for your visit today? You were speaking of some investment opportunity before we got interrupted?”

“Ah, yes,” he cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. Nicole, I think it is time that you start acting like an adult and invest in Svane Match Emporium. With the latest balance sheets I was privy to seeing, the monopoly that the Svanes have created throughout Europe will soon yield 20% returns on investment. At least! I know that you and Robert have some long-standing… _feud_ … going on but wouldn’t you agree that it’s entirely juvenile and petty at this point?”

A silence descended on the room. Waverly was forced to place her ear against the door to hear the words Nicole whispered next, “I will never invest in Robert’s scams and neither should you. How you cannot see that all of his endeavors are fraudulent, how he cooks up his books and embezzles the investor funds for his personal expenses is beyond me.”

“Nicole, now you’re really crossing a line with all these baseless accusations. The Svanes are my close friends and you’d do me a… _personal favor_ … if you invested in Robert’s company.”

“I will not and this is the end of this discussion, father. Now, if that is all you wanted to see me about, I have an _important_ _appointment_ waiting for me in my study. Please excuse me,” Nicole’s words sounded final. Waverly’s heart did a somersault at being referred to as _important_.

She heard a rustling of clothes and a few steps against the wooden floors.

“I always thought that your mother made the most significant mistake of her life in death – by leaving her family fortune to you. I could never understand Poles and all their ridiculous traditions but the custom of appointing the children – even the female children! – as the beneficiaries of your will, when you have a surviving husband is simply preposterous!” his tone suddenly enraged, Nicole’s father didn’t seem to pull any punches. What he hoped to achieve by insulting Nicole’s mother and the Polish culture Waverly really couldn’t tell.

Waiting for Nicole’s riposte which never came, her ear still plastered to the door, Waverly stumbled out of the room, as the door was suddenly opened. Nicole examined her with a solitary raised eyebrow.

“What can I do for you, Mademoiselle Earp?”

Back to the formalities then. Waverly could work with that.

“I uhm… With your father’s visit, I realize this is probably not the best time, but I have some things I needed to say to you and I’d rather do it now, before I lose the nerve.”

Nicole nodded in acquiescence and gestured for Waverly to take a seat on the sofa recently vacated by her father.

“Oh, and I got you these,” Waverly handed her the battered bouquet, “but I suppose they got a bit damaged in the commotion.”

Accepting the flowers and placing them gently on a side table, Nicole still hasn’t spoken a word. Waverly swallowed heavily and, sat gingerly on the sofa, started wringing her hands in a gesture that always calmed her nerves.

“Okay. So, I’ll start… Dr. Curie told me today that she intends to grant the scholarship you’ve established to me. And I just… I wanted to…”

Before Waverly could finish, Nicole butted in, “I had nothing to do with that decision. Don’t see it as something personal because it wasn’t.” Nicole’s tone was short, much like it was with her father, but at least her body language appeared fractionally more relaxed in Waverly’s presence.

“Oh, no. No, I know you had no influence on the decision. I guess I just wanted to thank you… Not from me!” Waverly was fast to correct. Why was it so bloody difficult to express her thoughts to Nicole? “It’s just such a commendable way of spending money and I think someone should thank you for it – that scholarship will help so many people in the long run. So… yeah. Thank you, Nicole. Really.”

Meeting Waverly’s eyes for longer than a second for the first time that day, Nicole visibly deflated. She rubbed her forehead intersected by a frown. “Well, I do believe that science is the future and that the technological advances will make life easier and more equitable for everyone. The scholarship seemed like the easiest way to support that.”

Waverly offered Nicole a smile in response but the woman chose to divert her eyes, yet again. After a beat of silence, Waverly decided to continue. The talk about the scholarship didn’t provide the opening she needed and she would simply have to spit it out.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Searching Nicole’s face but unable to gaze into her eyes, Waverly proceeded much less confidently. “I am truly sorry, Nicole. I’m sorry for passing the information about the worker’s meeting on to Mr. Svane. I’m sorry for taking his side over yours. Ultimately, I’m sorry for naively trusting him… My words probably mean little to you now, but I need you to know that all of this was unintentional on my part. I actually couldn’t believe my ears when he spoke out at that meeting.” Deciding that opening up, sharing, and being vulnerable was the best course of action, Waverly took a deep breath, “You see, I used to work 12-hour shifts, six days a week, at a clothing factory back home. I was just a runner, so I really couldn’t complain – some of the women working the stations had it much worse – but that sort of time commitment really does suck the life out of you. And although I haven’t paid much attention to the worker’s rights movement, it is close to my heart.”

Nicole looked at her inquisitively, her eyes almost encouraging and warming up to their typical temperature.

“My father died at a factory accident when I was 14,” it was Waverly’s turn to look at her hands.

“I’m sorry, Waverly. I had no idea…” Nicole whispered back.

Waverly shrugged, “I’m not telling you this to get your sympathy or… I don’t know. Everything that was said at that meeting made a connection with my personal experience, one way or another – from the reduced work time to the pensions system. Had I known that he was such a ruthless opponent of that cause, I would have never chosen to associate so closely with Mr. Svane.”

Whatever she said, sent Nicole back to her wary and distrustful attitude, “You still work for him though, yes?”

Waverly didn’t even think about it being of any significance. She still worked as Mr. Svane’s laundry-maid simply because without it, she wouldn’t be able to stay in Paris. Not before today’s news of the scholarship, at least.

“I uhm. Yes, but Nico…”

“Okay.” It was definitive. Nicole’s back was ramrod straight again, her eyes were steely cold.

What a minefield of a conversation.

Sighing deeply, Waverly marched right on, “Is it because of Shae? Whatever she did, Nicole, I am not her.”

“Forgive me, Waverly, but that is really none of your business,” Nicole spit out.

Waverly was trying to be understanding of Nicole’s pain, she really was, but Nicole’s dismissive tone also triggered the last vestige of pride she had left. It wasn’t like Waverly was the only one to blame here.

“You’re right. Just like it was none of my business when I saw Duchess de Gramont on your arm, flirting shamelessly on the steps of the Odéon Theatre!” she bit back, perhaps with more bitterness than she intended.

Blinking rapidly and looking at Waverly with begrudging respect – or was it attraction? – Nicole burst out laughing. Waverly was glad that Nicole found _something_ to laugh about in this situation.

“Oh my god, that was one of the most awkward nights of my life!” she dried the tears from the corners of her eyes. Noticing Waverly’s confused expression, Nicole went on to explain, “Let’s just say that even though Paris has a certain reputation, the network of Sapphic women in this city is claustrophobic! You see, Renée – who has been with Hélène for the past five years now – used to date Natalie, whose play we went to see that night. Natalie opposes the practice of monogamy on principle and Renée eventually left her because of it. The thing is that Natalie wants to win Renée back and so she came over with a very successful American painter – Romaine Brooks – to make Renée jealous. _Meanwhile_ , Natalie’s latest conquest – Lily de Gramont – was left to me to deal with. I assume her coquettish behavior towards me had the same purpose Natalie’s display with Romaine had – to awaken the jealousy of the woman she most desired.”

Waverly had a hard time following any of it. Maybe except for one detail, “So you didn’t sleep with her?”

“Who? Lily? God no. She’s really not my type.” Ah! There was that presumptuous, overconfident Nicole and her dimpled grin.

Blushing at the insinuation, Waverly smiled at her bashfully, yet Nicole quickly grew somber again and corrected herself, “Waverly, I… After what happened with Svane, I don’t think I can trust you… I don’t know that I ever will. We can certainly remain civil but…”

Waverly knew what came after that _but_ and she needed Nicole not to say it out loud, not to make it real. “I know, Nicole,” she nodded sadly. “Maybe just friends?” Waverly asked hopefully.

Exasperated, Nicole chuckled. “Sure, Waverly. Maybe just friends.”

~

What Waverly lacked in confidence, she certainly made up in stubbornness. She was determined to win Nicole’s trust back, to prove that she was worthy of Nicole’s friendship. It also helped that she still had some burning questions left that nobody was willing to address thus far. There was only one person left who could help her.

“I’m here to see Baroness van Zuylen,” Waverly announced to the concierge at the Hôtel Salomon de Rothschild, located in a close vicinity to the Arc de Triomphe. The preference of some of the wealthy to live in hotels – even if a said hotel was more of a mansion that belonged to their family – was still perplexing to Waverly. “She’s expecting me,” she added hastily after receiving a rude once-over.

Still skeptical but not having a real reason to deny her entry, the concierge showed Waverly to Hélène’s quarters. If Nicole’s townhouse overlooking the Luxemburg Gardens seemed resplendent, Hélène’s apartment was simply ostentatious to the verge of pretentiousness.

“Baroness van Zuylen, thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“I’m mostly just curious to see what you have to say for yourself, young lady. And please, I already told you to call me Hélène and I am not keen on repeating myself.”

Properly chastised, if not a bit chagrined that her attempted politeness was so ruthlessly rebutted, Waverly continued, “So I gather that you were already informed about what transpired between Nicole and me?”

“The details are vague – Nicole tends to sugarcoat when she’s trying to protect somebody. I did see her face after that stunt in jail though and I know that Svane learned about the worker’s meeting through _you_. By association, I think it’s only fair to put the blame for Nicole’s injuries on you,” Hélène was apparently a rather candid person. Waverly suspected that with a certain level of social status, you could afford not to pussyfoot around.

“Yes, I did tell Mr. Svane about the details of that meeting.” Waverly swallowed nervously. “But in my defense, I didn’t know what it was really about until we got there. He told me that I should see just how much Nicole tries to manipulate his workers against him. I know that it doesn’t undo the damage, but I see now what a load of bollocks that was.”

After a long moment of scrutiny, Hélène nodded and asked, “Tea?”

“Excuse me?”

“Color me intrigued. Say that I believe you and want to hear your side of the story – I believe we will need some tea, wouldn’t you agree? I have a spectacular batch from Ceylon!”

“Oh, yes. Tea would be nice.” Waverly smiled weakly. The changes in Hélène’s attitude were difficult to follow.

The tea ordered, Hélène gestured for Waverly to continue.

“I made a stupid mistake – consequences of which were rather painful for Nicole. I want to move forward from it, I want to make things right, but it feels like there is something deeper at play here. It all seems to go back to someone named Shae – but neither Dr. Curie nor Nicole were keen on telling me what really happened.” Waverly looked at Hélène with what she hoped was a genuine expression. “I can’t fix this if I don’t fully understand what’s wrong.”

Waverly took a sip of freshly delivered tea. Her eyes closed shut involuntarily when the hot liquid met her taste buds. God, how she’s missed the taste of well-steeped tea. This golden-amber brew was heavenly – rich in aroma, with a sharp yet nearly fruity flavor – nothing like the weak watery concoctions with a vaguely brownish coloring the French considered tea.

The brim of the teacup resting against her lips, Hélène tapped her finger against the porcelain, still considering Waverly carefully. Depositing the cup on the saucer and getting more comfortable in the armchair, Hélène must have made up her mind. “Nicole’s mother was still alive and I hadn’t met Renée yet, so it must have been six, maybe seven years ago.”

It seemed like Waverly would finally get her answers. She put her teacup down and focused all of her attention on Hélène.

“Nicole was just a kid then – barely 21 years old. She fell madly in love with an apothecary assistant – a quiet girl who moved to Paris in search of a better life. Nicole was just _horrible_ at flirting then,” Hélène laughed, lost in memories. “So obvious and direct, not a gram of sophistication or mystery. But you see, Shae was not at all receptive to Nicole’s advances. I distinctly remember a party when I tried to talk some sense into an inebriated Nicole – she was so blinded by that infatuation, it was difficult to get through to her.”

Waverly listened transfixed – the images of a younger, more carefree Nicole flooded her mind.

“Suddenly, everything changed,” Hélène continued. “Shae flirted back, she allowed Nicole to take her out, to shower her with gifts and affection. I warned Nicole to be cautious but she misconstrued my concerns for envy. The whole affair continued for several months. Eventually, Shae became the first person who Nicole slept with, which only deepened the distance she created between themselves and everybody else. Ah, the first love with its naïve conviction that your darling can fill in the role of every person in your life – your lover, your friend, your mother,” Hélène gesticulated with her hand.

“A couple of months later, we were at a soirée packed with the most influential people in Paris when Robert walked in with Shae and another man. It was at a time when Nicole and Robert were still on speaking terms – they were not friends, but they weren’t enemies either. When Nicole, confused, asked Shae who the man was, Robert introduced him as Shae’s fiancée. Naturally, the whole emotional scene unfolded, in which Nicole was made a fool in front of dozens of people – Camille and I dragged her out of there weeping and defeated.”

_It sounded awful_ , Waverly thought, _but_ , “What did Mr. Svane have to do with any of it?”

“Ah, you see, right after we left, Robert couldn’t help himself and boasted to whomever would listen about how easy it was to break the mighty Nicole Haught – the heiress to a great Polish dynasty. He paid Shae a sizable amount – enough that she and her soon-to-be-husband were able to buy a small vineyard in the west of France – to allow Nicole’s courtship and then break her heart.”

Oh… _Oh_ …

Did Nicole think that Mr. Svane _bought_ Waverly as well? That he paid her to spend time with Nicole? Is that why she was so distant and seemed infinitely more hurt than the simple misunderstanding called for? God, no wonder Nicole lost all of her trust in Waverly – it was not only because she passed the information about the worker’s rights meeting. No, it was much deeper than that – Nicole must have questioned every single minute they spent together, convinced that Waverly was _paid_ for it, that every moment they shared was somehow insincere, that it was all meticulously fabricated.

_Oh no_ , and that unfortunate day in the Curies’ old shed! What has she done? Why did she leave, without talking to Nicole first? Why did she allow the self-pity, anger, and jealousy – jealousy that she had later found out to have been unsubstantiated – to fuel her that day?

“I won’t repeat the cold words that Shae threw at Nicole at that party – but words that cruel stay with you forever. Every Sapphic woman I know has those internalized doubts, hears those words whispered from the depths of her core, even if they were never spoken to her specifically – we walk through life wondering if there is something wrong with us. Nicole’s first love broke her heart in a very public, humiliating manner – she hides behind her charming smiles and an effortless attitude but that kid’s never allowed anybody else near her heart. Not until…”

“Until?” The insinuation hung heavy in the air between them, weighing Waverly down with the equal burdens of exhilaration and diffidence. She wasn’t oblivious enough not to have noticed the brewing attraction between them but she thought – no, she _knew_ – she wasn’t deserving enough of Nicole’s affection, not if it was as consequential as Hélène made it out to be.

Hélène nodded sadly. “Nicole believes she doesn’t deserve love. If you care about her, if you decide to fight for her, you will have plenty of work cut out for you.”

Waverly blinked at that statement in a rapid succession; Hélène’s description of Nicole’s insecurities rang uncannily similar to the thoughts that raced through her own mind not a minute ago. If anyone was worthy of love it was Nicole – brave, loyal, and kind Nicole. Waverly decided in that moment that she would do everything in her power to show Nicole just how much she deserved to be loved and cherished.

First thing’s first though.

“I uhm. It’s going to sound like I was eavesdropping again… Which I wasn’t – well, not intentionally at least…”

“Waverly, just spit it out,” Hélène laughed, interrupting her spinning.

After a deep breath, Waverly continued, “I heard Nicole’s father trying to convince her to invest in Mr. Svane’s business but she was exceptionally opposed to it – I think she even called it a scam. Do you happen to know anything about it? I have an idea but I may need your help.”

“That’s an interesting digression you want to take. I’d think you’d be more interested in Shae than in Robert’s financial machinations,” Hélène remarked curiously, almost cautiously.

Waverly shrugged, “She did something extremely callous, hurting the most beautiful human being I know, and I hope it keeps her up at night. There is nothing more I need to know about her. What I _do_ need is to find a way forward, to show Nicole there are people who care and lo…” she coughed awkwardly, “who adore her.”

Smiling at her slip of the tongue, Hélène said, “What do you want to know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my circus and not my monkeys – A Polish proverb meaning “it’s not my business”
> 
> Hélène was with Renée who used to date Natalie, who in turn was in a relationship with Romaine, with numerous lovers on the side, including Lily. Did you follow that? No? That’s okay – neither did Waverly.
> 
> Élisabeth (Lily) de Gramont:  
> She was a Duchess of Clermont-Tonnerre, a French writer of the early 20th century, and a close friend of Marcel Proust. She’s best known for her long-term relationship with Natalie Clifford Barney. The Duchess accepted Natalie's ways – albeit reluctantly at first – and went out of her way to be gracious to Natalie's other lovers. She always included Romaine when she invited Natalie to vacation in the country. The three women eventually formed a trio and were devoted to one another for the rest of their lives.  
> 


	9. July, 1907

_ July, 1907 _

Nicole didn’t want to go out, especially not to a fancy party at the Hôtel Salomon de Rothschild, but Hélène was insistent and relentless until she caved in. Her bruises had healed by now, yet Nicole’s heart still ached at every fleeting thought associated with one Waverly Earp. They hadn’t been courting by any stretch of imagination – hell, they were barely even acquaintances – and so Nicole’s mind repeatedly scolded and chastised her heart for exaggerating and distorting their relationship out of proportion. Nicole’s heart, however, was a rebellious bastard that laughed in the face of her mind’s pleas.

Hélène hasn’t thrown a party of this caliber in years and Nicole wasn’t sure what came over her now. Fashionably late and dressed in a fitted classic tuxedo, a violet shirt with an ornate ruffled front adding a hint of flamboyance, Nicole parked her Type Y in a designated spot on the side of the mansion and walked disconsolately to the front door.

The party was in full swing, people mingling in the grand ballroom at the bottom of a regal double-sided staircase. She saw Camille talking with Hélène’s uncle, a wealthy banker, by one of the large pillars; by the looks of it, the room was packed with financiers and industrialists, with only a few artists and celebrities in attendance – quite an unusual crowd for Hélène. Still by the entrance, Nicole put on a pleasant smile and promptly grabbed a glass of champagne from the tray of one of the passing garçons. Sat in the corner, Hélène’s gramophone was quietly projecting an impressionist tune – _perhaps a Debussy’s piece_ , Nicole thought.

The champagne flute suspended on its way to her lips, mouth agape, Nicole noticed something –  _someone_ – that immediately stole her attention. Walking down the right side of the staircase, gingerly holding the side of her dress in her hand, was none other than Waverly. Wearing an enticing teal dress – formfitting and modest, yet with a décolletage neckline and exposed forearms still showing more skin than Nicole has ever witnessed Waverly display – she was a _vision_. Even with the plain updo, so humble compared to the current sophisticated hair styles and hats worn by socialites, Waverly was easily the most breathtaking, gorgeous woman in that ballroom.

Her throat suddenly parched, Nicole took a large gulp of her champagne. 

Their eyes met and, even though Waverly blushed and smiled bashfully, that was enough to send a spark of electricity through Nicole’s body. Mesmerized, hypnotized, Nicole was incapable of diverting her eyes.

Someone knocking the gramophone and causing it to release the most abominable noise of a scratched record, broke the spell Nicole was under. Her mind flooded with suspicions and inklings of doubt. Nicole didn’t want to sound classist, but what was Waverly doing at a high-society event like this? The whole setting was bizarrely too similar to the party where Shae broke her heart for Nicole not to frown and feel a cold sweat cover her palms. Her chest constricting, she quickly scanned the room in search of Hélène but instead her eyes found Svane chatting merrily with her father.

Both Svane and Waverly present in the same room simply couldn’t be a coincidence. What was he plotting this time? Panic-stricken, Nicole searched her memories for any compromising information, any cringeworthy slip-up, however small, that she’d shared with Waverly and that could, in turn, have made its way to Svane.

Her eyes frantically searching the ballroom finally landed on Hélène who sent her a wink from the front of the room. Nicole started meandering between the guests towards her, when the music was stopped and her friend addressed the room.

“Welcome, welcome! You must all be wondering why we gathered here tonight and I assure you that your curiosity will soon be satisfied. But first, let me invite our guest of honor to join me up here – Monsieur Robert Svane! Please, Robert, don’t be shy!” Hélène gestured at a large, ornamental chair, upholstered with plush red velvet, situated next to her.

Nicole’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. What was happening? What sort of an alternate universe did she find herself in? She looked at the flute in her hand questioningly – was there something in her drink and she was merely hallucinating? Or was this all a bad dream, a nightmare, much alike plenty others she’s had since that unfortunate party six years ago?

Sitting down in the provided chair placed in the center of the room, Svane had a fake smile plastered on his face but he looked around the crowd apprehensively. He relaxed at Hélène’s next words, “This year marks the fifth anniversary of Robert taking the helm of Svane Match Emporium.”

A loud round of applause and cheers travelled through the crowded room. Nicole was stood stock still in the center of it all, watching it unfold dumbfounded, feeling as if it was happening to somebody else, almost as if she was merely a spectator watching a motion picture.

“To celebrate such a jubilant occasion, we wanted to share Robert’s largest accomplishments with you all – his most devoted supporters and investors.” Hélène stood behind Svane’s chair now, placing a hand on his shoulder.

A short, stocky man, wearing a simple black suit, so out of place among the expensive tuxedos crowding the grand room, deposited a heavy looking folder on a table next to Svane and Hélène. His mustachioed lip twitched and he cleared his throat nervously. “Messieurs, Mesdames. My name is Roland Gigot and I’m the Rothschild family’s financial adviser.” He bowed awkwardly in greeting.

“Monsieur Gigot has prepared a list of Robert’s most noteworthy deeds. Monsieur Gigot?” Hélène yielded the floor to the man.

His mustache twitching again, he opened the folder and scanned the first sheet of paper. “This document specifies that the shares of Svane Match Emporium are divided into two classes: A shares and B shares. While all the shares have the same claim to dividends and profits, a B share carries only 1/1000th of an A share’s voting rights.”

Nicole looked around the room to a sight of frowns and quiet grumbles. Still disoriented, her panic was slowly receding, replaced with curiosity.

“This way, you see, Robert was able to double the size of his capital, while diluting his control over the company by only a fraction of a percent. Since voting is confidential, none of you were aware of the diffused power of your votes,” Hélène explained further, one of her classic congenial smiles on her lips. Svane stirred in his chair, seemingly ready to remove himself from this situation but Hélène’s hand on his shoulder kept him in place.

“Furthermore,” Monsieur Gigot continued, looking at the second piece of paper in his hand, “the dividends and capital gains paid by Svane Match Emporium are not covered by the company’s profits but rather by numerous bank loans, current investment funds, and securities Monsieur Svane has issued, including convertible gold debentures, not secured by physical assets. The sale of securities in the United States last year alone raised a total of $15 million, equivalent to approximately 85 million francs.”

The displeasure and uneasiness were now palpable in the room, the wealthy men around Nicole looked around uncertain and confounded. Nicole turned around and searched for her father who was holding two champagne flutes, unsteadily reclining against the back wall.

Gleeful, Hélène clapped her hands. “Isn’t Robert just brilliant?! It’s the finest financial mousetrap in history! He lured the wealthiest investors from both Europe and America to funnel hundreds of millions of francs into his modest match company!”

“It’s impossible! All of this would have shown on the company balance sheets – either as obligations, or debt, or… or…” a young man, Nicole thought to be the youngest of the Goldman boys, shouted over the crowd.

“This brings us to the last of Robert’s accomplishments. Monsieur Gigot?” Hélène redirected the question to her financial adviser.

He rummaged through the folder and, finding the paper he apparently needed, cleared his throat, “Yes. The so-called _off balance-sheet entities_. Svane Match Emporium controls innumerable other enterprises that do not appear on the parent company’s financial statements, allowing the speculations, debt, and other liabilities to remain perfectly hidden from the investors.”

“Svane, these are serious accusations! What do you have to say for yourself?” somebody else yelled from the crowd.

Robert’s face was ashen as a piece of paper and he was holding onto the chair’s armrests with a death grip. “Gentlemen. Please, let’s just calm down and talk it out like reasonable people. I promised you 6% returns in the form of dividends and I have delivered on that promise. We are all making money so I don’t understand what all this fuss is about.”

“The _fuss_ , Robert, is about you deceiving the investors and building a house of cards of a company,” an older, graying man, holding an elegant cane in his right hand spoke clearly above the tumult from his position on the second step of the staircase.

“Father?” Svane whispered, visibly shaken.

“You were gifted with a profitable business, which you managed to convert into a European monopoly, and I applauded you for it. You could have sensibly provided our investors with 2% dividends, yet your greed and hunger for fame drove you to this immoral scheme. What will happen to your outlandish promises of 20% returns on investment when you run out of the funds you’ve collected? And with you embezzling some of the money for your lavish personal expenses, Robert, this house of cards will collapse sooner rather than later.”

Two police officers walked through the side door and approached Robert, who shot up to his feet. “What is the meaning of this? You have no right to arrest me!”

“They do, Robert, and they will. I have made a deal with a person who uncovered your machinations, as my final bid to save the company and our family’s good name. You will be charged with fraudulent misappropriation of funds,” Robert’s father continued, somewhat coldly, and Nicole almost felt bad for him.

_Almost._

As Svane was escorted out of the room, his head hanging low in shame, Nicole didn’t feel pity for him, but she didn’t feel elated by his downfall either. She took a deep breath, releasing some of the tension she accumulated upon arriving at the party. Her next thought went to the thousands of workers employed by Svane’s match companies across Europe – would the enterprise survive this shake-up or would they all be let go because of one man’s selfishness and greed?

The commotion around her intensified, people rushing outside, likely anxious to speak with their own financial advisers and draft appropriate plans to elude the consequences of Svane’s demise. The grand room emptied surprisingly quickly; in a hurry to leave, people abandoned champagne flutes, napkins, and unfinished hors d’oeuvres wherever they stood. Nicole saw her father flee with the rest of them, avoiding her eyes. She always wondered how much money he invested in Svane’s schemes and based on his ashen face, Nicole thought it was safe to assume it was a good portion of his wealth.

The only people left in the room were Hélène and Monsieur Gigot – the fat folder still securely held in his chubby hands – talking with Robert’s father. Nicole walked towards them and caught the end of their conversation, just as the man was shaking her friend’s hand, “Baroness van Zuylen, you have my undying gratitude for so graciously influencing your uncle to freeze Robert’s loans and allow us to repay them at a later date without the excessive interest. Thank you again.”

The man excused himself, followed by Hélène’s financial adviser, leaving the two women alone in the abandoned room. Nicole looked at her friend through completely new lenses; both of them have been, at least partially, aware of Robert’s machinations for a number of years now, yet little could they do without some solid evidence, which was difficult to come by. Svane was paranoid in his business dealings and never let anyone close to his books. Hélène must have spent a considerable amount of time and resources gaining access to all those documents. To say that Nicole was impressed would be a massive understatement.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Nicole smacked Hélène’s upper arm, “Hélène, you old sly fox! How did you manage all of this?”

Smiling at her sweetly and batting her eyelids almost comically, Hélène responded, “You liked that, didn’t you? The great reveal and the fanfare?” She gestured around the grand room theatrically. “After finding all the incriminating documents and then some, she wanted to do it quietly but I assured her that you were a sucker for grand gestures.”

_She?_

“Who are you talking about, Hélène?” Nicole hoped her friend didn’t suddenly develop a habit of speaking about herself in the third person.

“I see that you’re not only slow when we race, kid.”

Nicole’s expression arriving at the brink of annoyance caused Hélène to shake her head and throw her hands in the air in exasperation, “Waverly, you dunce!”

“Waverly?” Nicole frowned. “Waverly Earp?” she needed to clarify, as if they had known multiple _Waverlys_. Upon receiving another nod from Hélène, Nicole continued to question, still completely lost, “I thought you only met briefly over dinner at Marie’s months ago. What does Waverly have to do with any of this?” Her brows pulled together in thought, Nicole’s brain raced, trying to connect the dots – Waverly, Marie, Hélène… Svane. It didn’t make any sense.

“Everything, as a matter of fact. She’s the one who found all this evidence – don’t ask me how; that woman has some sophisticated network of people I didn’t really care enough to comprehend. I only helped by attaching my family name to this to grant it more gravitas – Waverly was worried that even with all the documents she’s exposed, nobody would take her word over Svane’s. Smart girl – she was probably correct in that assumption.”

“If not _how_ then at least _why_?”

“If you can’t figure that one out on your own, kid, then Waverly’s wasting her time,” Hélène responded vaguely.

Whatever it was Waverly was supposedly wasting her time on, Nicole was left in the darkness about – yet again, apparently.

Speaking of the  _angel_ , where was Waverly? Nicole lost track of her after the whole spectacle with Svane had begun. She looked around futilely – and quite needlessly, as the grand ballroom stood abandoned as a starling’s nest in the winter.

“She’s in the Small Chamber.” Nicole’s thoughts must have shown on her face, as Hélène gestured upstairs. “I offered her accommodations for the night. You should…” Hélène paused and considered Nicole long enough that it nearly made her feel uneasy. “You should go and talk with her. Waverly is a sweet girl and today must have been overwhelming for her – we both know how lacking I am in the empathy department,” Hélène waved her hand dismissively.

~

Nicole went up the grand staircase in search of Waverly. The door to the Small Chamber was left ajar; inside, a young chambermaid stoked the fire in the fireplace, while Waverly hovered uncertainly around, trying to help, yet visibly uncomfortable. The Small Chamber truly was one of the more modest rooms in the mansion – not too large, as the name indicated, with a four-poster bed and two chests of drawers on one end, and a fireplace on the other end of the room. It was shrouded in darkness, the soft orange glow from the newly stoked fire providing barely just enough light.

Maybe it was the warmth and the glow from the fireplace but Nicole stood by the door, without announcing her presence, for longer than was strictly appropriate, looking fondly at the scene unfolding in front of her eyes. Still wearing the teal dress Nicole saw her in earlier, Waverly couldn’t help much with the fire, as it was too tight around the knees for her to crouch. Even from the distance, it was evident how uncomfortable she was with having somebody serve her. Seeing Waverly in this setting, in that dress, made Nicole believe that Waverly deserved the world, that in a different life she could have been a duchess – a duchess with a heart of gold.

Startled by Nicole’s silhouette hiding in the shadows by the door, the young chambermaid dropped an ash pan, whose metal body released a loud clatter and multiple dins against the wood floor.

“Mademoiselle, my apologies, I didn’t see you there. I’ll be going soon, just clean this up and be on my way,” the chambermaid babbled, humble and regretful.

Waverly met Nicole’s eyes but didn’t say anything until the chambermaid tidied up the fireplace utensils and scurried meekly past the door, her eyes glued to the floor.

Her arms crossed holding her elbows, Waverly turned towards the fire. “Would you like to come in?”

“You’re cold,” Nicole offered, not really a response to Waverly’s question. Once that realization hit – Waverly was not only uncomfortable with the maid stoking the fire, she was also shivering in the flimsy dress with an exposed neckline and forearms – Nicole strutted in confidently, took off her tuxedo blazer, and placed it gently over Waverly’s trembling shoulders.

Waverly offered her a small smile as a thanks and sat down on an upholstered settee bench in front of the fireplace. “I didn’t want to expose Mr. Svane so openly but Hélène insisted that the public humiliation would constitute a much greater punishment for him than a time in prison ever would – not to mention a much more suitable revenge for… for you,” Waverly whispered so quietly, Nicole was forced to sit down next to her to hear.

“Revenge? Oh… You know about Shae?”

“Hélène told me.” Realizing her admission may stir trouble, Waverly placed a gentle hand on Nicole’s lap and turned to look her in the eyes, “But please don’t be mad at her. I was really persistent and determined to learn what had happened between Mr. Svane and you.”

Waverly’s hand scorching hot on her thigh, Nicole had to physically stop herself from enveloping it with her own. Lost in the greenish irises reflecting the orange flames, Nicole wasn’t in the least upset – if anything, her brain had trouble catching up with the turn of events.

“How did you find all that evidence, Waverly? Robert was famously guarded with his records.” All Nicole wanted to know in that moment was the _why_ but the mechanics of the _how_ would likely be easier for Waverly to explain and would have to do for now.

Flustered at the implied praise, Waverly removed her hand from Nicole’s thigh to wring it nervously in her lap. With the removed distraction, Nicole was relieved to focus on the conversation more fully, simultaneously craving the return of the physical connection.

“It wasn’t all that difficult,” Waverly dismissed demurely. “Mr. Svane may have been guarded with his files and financial statements amongst the people who he considered threatening and… equal, but his domestic servants and the janitorial workers in his factories had nearly an unrestricted access to his most hidden secrets.”

Nicole sat there, blinking owlishly, entirely at awe with this woman and her brilliant brain – Marie had always said that the most distinguishing feature of brilliance is its ability to _see_ the obvious solutions to the complex problems. In Waverly, Nicole finally saw how true that was.

Taking the silence as an invitation to continue, Waverly added, “After I found all those files with the help of Mr. Svane’s domestic help and factory workers, and Hélène and her financial advisers had the time to sieve through it all, it quickly became apparent just how incriminating it was. Mr. Gigot warned us in no uncertain terms that if we come forward with it, Svane’s Match Emporium would not survive it – that the banks would revoke the loans, causing a wide-spread panic among the shareholders and investors.”

After a momentary pause, Nicole probed gently, “And you were afraid that the company would go bankrupt, leaving thousands of people without a job, yes?”

Waverly nodded sadly, looking at her hands. “Yeah. I knew Mr. Svane needed to be exposed but I didn’t want the ordinary workers to become collateral damage. It was one of the most difficult decisions of my life, Nicole.” She wasn’t sure in the dim fire light, but it almost looked like Waverly’s eyes filled with tears.

Nicole wouldn’t lie and say she didn’t consider the fate of his factory workers in this situation as well.

“Hélène contacted Mr. Svane’s father in Sweden, who agreed to meet with us. After learning all the specific details of his son’s business machinations, he was eager to resolve it in a way that would preserve the enterprise and the family name. He quickly agreed to sacrifice Mr. Svane’s freedom in exchange of some concessions,” Waverly shrugged sadly. “Hélène convinced her uncle who controls her family’s banking institutions to defer the interest payments on Mr. Svane’s loans for a period of five years. And… uhm… in return for me not including the documents specifying how Mr. Svane used the company money for his lavish personal expenses, his father had agreed to cut the dividends to 2% and create a pension fund for the factory workers from some of the remaining capital reserves.”

“That’s truly remarkable, Waverly,” Nicole complimented in an equally low voice, verging on a whisper. Managing to topple Robert’s hegemony without hurting the workers was an extraordinary feat. “Why did you come and hide up here, instead of celebrating with Hélène downstairs?”

“Mr. Svane made some questionable decisions and hurt numerous people in the process but he wasn’t… he isn’t a bad man,” Waverly spoke with conviction. “I couldn’t stand there and watch him get arrested because of me. He offered me a job of a laundry-maid without knowing the first thing about me and he always treated me and all his other domestic workers fairly and decently.”

When would this woman realize she deserved so much more than a basic fairness and decency?

Looking into the fire, Waverly lowered her voice, “I know it doesn’t negate what happened at the May Day worker’s gathering, but I hope…” she turned to Nicole with vulnerability and honesty swimming in her eyes, “I hope that you’ll learn to trust me again one day. That this was a step in the right direction.”

Nicole felt a sudden urge to lean her body forward and capture Waverly’s lips – the whispered genuine words, the soft glow of the fireplace, and the heightened emotions made it _oh so_ tempting. She searched Waverly’s face, unguarded and sincere, but couldn’t decipher if this was something Waverly wanted. The painful memories of being left broken and confused on the dirty floor in Marie’s old shed, of feeling rejected, flooded Nicole’s mind and she broke the heavy eye contact. Everything was happening too quickly tonight and she needed time to collect her scattered thoughts and make sense of it all.

Waverly sighed quietly, sounding almost dejected; but _it must have been just the events of the evening manifesting themselves as exhaustion_ , Nicole reasoned.

Desperately grasping for something else to talk about and break the heavy silence, her mind already back in the Curies’ shed months ago, Nicole said, “I never thanked you for not telling Marie about my failed trials with explosives in her old shed. We already disagree on the best route to Polish independence and I’m afraid that it could have broken our friendship.”

“Of course.” Waverly looked at her inquisitively, “You’re… uhm… you’re not involved in anything dangerous, are you? I must confess that I don’t know much about the current Polish struggle but both Dr. Curie and the woman that was with you in the shed sounded like they strongly disagreed with whatever it is you were doing.”

It was Nicole’s turn to sigh deeply and admit her mistakes, “Yeah. Yeah, they were both right to some extent. Rosa – the woman you saw with me – is a strong proponent of proletarian rights and believes that the Polish independence can only be achieved through socialist revolutions across Europe. She criticized the people I was working with at that time – they were also Polish socialists but with a very strong nationalist stand, which Rosa disagrees with. After speaking with her and attending the May Day gathering, I realized she was right.”

“Oh, so you’re no longer tinkering with explosives? That’s great, Nicole. You really didn’t know what you were doing in there,” Waverly smiled at her teasingly.

“I never said I did,” Nicole teased back. Trust works both ways and Nicole couldn’t see a reason not to trust Waverly with this – not now, after the revelations of the past couple of hours. “I uhm… I’m still trying to make it work but for a different purpose now. I learned that the first group of people I worked with wanted to use the explosive to assassinate Tsar Nicolas as he was visiting St. Petersburg’s factories. Thanks to Rosa, I understood what a pointless pursuit that was and how it would have cost numerous innocent lives.”

Nicole got lost in thought, staring at the flames dancing in the fireplace. She was relieved to have learned the whole background of Tomasz’s plan before she unwittingly participated in something so heinous and futile. Waverly’s gentle inquiry brought her back to the conversation, “So what do you need an explosive for now?”

“Rosa got me in touch with Aleksandra, a fiancé of Józef Piłsudski – they’re both socialists as well but they believe in a multi-ethnic Poland, a Poland of the past with various religious and ethnic minorities living together peacefully. Józef is convinced that an outbreak of a major European war is imminent and his approach is to create Polish paramilitary units now, so when the time comes, we can participate in the war, instead of being left out of it, forgotten, for the winning powers to divide between themselves yet again.”

Waverly frowned, “And you want to be involved in what? Training with the paramilitary units? Nicole, that sounds very dangerous.”

“No, no. Nothing like that,” Nicole was fast to assure. “You see, they need money. And I help where I can but the level of funding that’s needed to purchase weapons and create a well-oiled paramilitary organization is well beyond any one person’s pockets. But it’s not beyond Tsar’s coffers.”

Her explanations did nothing to assuage Waverly’s worries. She shot up to her feet. “You’re going to attempt to break into and rob _Tsar’s_ treasury? Nicole, that’s madness. You all will be caught and executed for it! I won’t let you!” she stomped her foot.

Even upset and angry, could this woman be any cuter? Nicole grabbed Waverly’s hand and tried to explain a little bit better, “Waverly, nobody’s getting executed. I chose the wrong words – let me rephrase. They learned about a mail train that will be transporting tax revenues, estimated at hundreds of thousands of rubles, from Warsaw to St. Petersburg in September. They need the explosives to stop the train and open the iron boxes with. I won’t even participate in the raid, since I can’t legally cross into the Polish territory under the Russian rule – all I can help with is creating the explosives.”

Still unconvinced and a bit apprehensive, Waverly questioned further, “So they’d technically be taking the tax money paid by the Poles to the Tsar and redirecting it to create a Polish military with?” Nicole nodded in assurance, running a thumb over Waverly’s hand still in her own in what she hoped was a calming gesture. “And the bombs won’t be used to kill anybody with, right?”

“Yes, Waverly. They can’t guarantee that nobody will die in the resulting fight but the train has a very limited security guard and the explosives won’t be used to target people – only to stop the train and to break into the safes,” Nicole looked up into Waverly’s eyes.

Visibly relieved, Waverly sat back down next to Nicole. Her eyebrows were pulled together in concentration and whatever it was Waverly was considering so scrupulously, Nicole was happy to give her all the time in the world, if it meant they could spend several more minutes together by this serene fire.

Finally, Waverly nodded thoughtfully, “Okay. I’ll help you with it.”

“You’ll help with what, Waverly?” confused with the turn of the conversation, Nicole asked.

“I’ll help you build the explosives,” Waverly explained with an assured nod, not dissimilar to Irène’s.

Nicole could vaguely feel her eyebrows shoot to her hairline and her mouth fall open.

Unperturbed by Nicole’s reaction, Waverly continued, “God, you’re so brave, Nicole.” She shook her head in disbelief and reverence. “But you only have a month left and from the looks of it, you still have no idea how to build an explosive.”

Her ego sucker-punched by the comment, Nicole was ready to defend herself. She wasn’t _there_ yet with the bomb, but she was getting closer each time.

“Please let me help, Nicole. As a chemist, I could smell right away that you used too much potassium nitrate in your mixture.”

Nicole didn’t even know she was using _any_ potassium nitrate, not to mention _too much_ of it. Her confusion must have been visible on her face, as Waverly chuckled good-naturedly and corrected, “Too much saltpeter. Plus, you must consider that you have to get the explosive safely across hundreds of kilometers – nitrate-based bombs may not be the most stable option. Have you considered using nitroglycerin? We could easily stabilize it with carbonate.” Waverly was chatting away, coming up with ideas Nicole hadn’t even contemplated.

Nicole was left utterly impressed with Waverly’s brain, not for the first time that evening; all she could do was just nod dumbly and agree to whatever Waverly deemed the most suitable option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since there are no new historical figures or events to talk about in this chapter, it may be a good place to note that the locations described within this fic do exist in the real world and you can still go and visit them in Paris:  
> \- The Curie’s residence near the Sorbonne is now a museum dedicated to them and their discoveries.  
> \- Luxembourg Gardens.  
> \- Rue de Venise, where I placed Waverly’s apartment, is much nicer now but still as narrow as it was 100 years ago.  
> \- Passage du Chantier, where Nicole bought the desk-set for Waverly, is still a very picturesque street with numerous artisanal furniture stores.  
> \- The Odéon Theatre.  
> \- Hôtel Salomon de Rothschild that belonged to the Rothschild family is where Hélène lived but only until she got married. In her will, Hélène’s mother left the house to the French government instead of her only child, Hélène. But you’d be mistaken if you think it was because of Hélène’s well-known affinity for women – Hélène’s mother was Jewish and she disinherited Hélène for marrying a Catholic. It’s a private property now, with various rooms for rent for social events but the surrounding gardens are open to the public.


	10. August, 1907

_ August, 1907 _

After several weeks of collecting all the needed reagents and equipment, Waverly was finally ready to get to work. She would have preferred to work alone but Nicole insisted she’d be there as well – so there they were, in Dr. Curie’s old shed, Waverly synthesizing nitroglycerin, while Nicole hovered around uselessly.

Things were certainly more amicable between them these days and Waverly recognized what a great feat of faith it was for Nicole to trust her with this project. Still, in the bright light of day they were awkward around each other, often falling into an uncomfortable silence or having small miscommunications – long gone were the candid whispered words and vulnerable dispositions that surfaced in front of the warm fireplace at Hélène’s hotel.

Waverly needed to concentrate on the nitration of glycerol, which was the most sensitive and precarious part of the whole process. Yet, it was nearly impossible with Nicole lingering around, bumping into her, and knocking over flasks and beakers, like a needy cat brushing their body around your legs. Waverly understood Nicole’s need to be helpful – she really did – but it didn’t make it any easier.

After the last incident, when Nicole had spilled a whole flask of sodium carbonate and apologized profusely for it for the subsequent 15 minutes, Waverly had had enough and came up with a distraction, alike one she would use with Dr. Curie’s girls. She had sent Nicole out in search of sugar, claiming it was crucial for the process.

It gave Waverly enough time to set up a cooling mantle, fill the vessel with acids, and begin the slow process of adding glycerol to the mixture, drop by drop, while closely monitoring the temperature. Not having Nicole in the shed not only allowed Waverly to focus more fully on the process, it also ensured that if she made a mistake and allowed the mixture to overheat, nobody else would be caught in the resulting explosion.

She was nearly done when Nicole walked through the shed door. “I got the best quality granular sugar available in the city.”

She sounded so proud, Waverly had to suppress the fond smile forming on her lips. “That’s great, Nicole. Here, set it on that counter over there. I’m almost done.”

Adding the last two drops of glycerol, Waverly left the mixture stirring in the cooling mantle. They still had to stabilize it with sorbents, but with the nitration process completed successfully, Waverly figured it wouldn’t hurt to take a break and have a little fun.

“I’ll need you to help me with this next step, Nicole. Put on that old lab coat, gloves, and some goggles.” When Nicole eagerly complied, Waverly gave her the next set of instructions, “Now, weight out 100 grams of sugar and place it in a 500-milliliter beaker. I’ll be here, measuring out sulfuric acid.”

Pouring some sulfuric acid into a graduated cylinder – it didn’t really matter how much she measured out – Waverly paid more attention to Nicole, not concerned with the adoring smile now painting her face. Nicole was fully absorbed with the task, biting her lower lip in concentration, meticulously adding grains of sugar onto a weighing boat with a spatula. She looked absolutely adorable in a white lab coat and googles, and Waverly was certain that this image of Nicole hunched over the scales would be forever seared into her memories.

“It’s done,” Nicole announced seriously and Waverly had to catch her fond expression.

“Okay, I’ll need you to pour this,” she peaked quickly at the cylinder in her hand, “86 milliliters of sulfuric acid into the beaker with sugar, while I stir it. It will be a very interesting reaction, so pay a close attention.”

Nicole nodded earnestly and started to pour the acid carefully, while Waverly stirred the mixture. When nothing happened immediately after, Nicole’s eyebrows pulled together in concern and she looked quickly between the beaker and Waverly, “Did I do it wrong, Waverly?”

Before Waverly had the time to respond, however, the mixture blackened, started hissing and releasing steam. Nicole responded by taking a protective step in front of Waverly.

“It’s okay, Nico…” Waverly tried to assuage her but once the black, hissing substance started to rise from the beaker like a possessed jungle snake, Nicole went into a full protective mode. She grabbed Waverly’s shoulders and moved them into a crouching position by the furthest wall, covering her ears with her fingers and shielding Waverly’s body with her own.

Waverly peaked over Nicole’s shoulders to make sure the reaction went into completion. She placed a comforting hand on Nicole’s cheek to gain her attention and rubbed her thumb soothingly until the woman opened her eyes. Waverly waited with a soft, comforting smile on her lips until Nicole removed her hands from her ears.

“It’s okay, Nicole. We’re safe. I wanted to show you how fun chemistry can be – I should have warned you that this would happen. I’m sorry,” she whispered, still holding Nicole’s face in her palm.

Nicole blinked owlishly, her brown eyes somehow larger than usual, before she comprehended what had happened. “Oh,” she responded and quickly got up to her feet.

Not wanting Nicole to feel foolish, Waverly stood up and grabbed her hand, “Come here.” She walked them back to the beaker. “This reaction was basically a dehydration of sugar – adding sulfuric acid caused the water to evaporate in the form of steam, leaving behind a tower of pure black carbon.”

“That’s… That’s pretty neat,” Nicole looked at her with something akin to admiration in her eyes.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with what we’re trying to accomplish here today but I needed to have you occupied with something for a while when I was completing the most sensitive part of the process,” Waverly explained.

“I uhm.” Nicole disconnected their hands to point at the door dejectedly, “I can go, if I’m in your way.”

“No, no. Please stay,” even though she was annoyed with Nicole’s hovering all day long, she was happy to be in her company. “Now that we’re done with synthesizing nitroglycerin, I could really use your help.”

When Nicole still didn’t look convinced, Waverly rolled her eyes and dragged her to a counter, where they laid out the sorbents and coatings. “I’ll soak the sorbent with nitroglycerin and pass it to you to roll in a stabilizer, a coating, and then a cardboard. We’ll attach the blasting cap at the end. It will go much faster with two people.”

Seeing that she could be genuinely useful, Nicole smiled one of her full, dimpled grins, and rolled up her sleeves, “Let’s make Mr. Nobel proud.”

~

Stepping out of the backseat of the motor-car, Waverly looked around herself uncertainly. If the screeching of seagulls was familiar, the warm bright sun, the luscious green grass, and the palm trees certainly weren’t. She went to retrieve her measly bag from the trunk but a young handsome porter beat her to it.

“Leave it to the help, Waverly,” Hélène dismissed, grabbing her by the shoulders and steering her towards the grand double stairs. “Welcome to Villa Rothschild – one of the most magnificent buildings in Cannes!”

The white building was a prime example of the neoclassical architecture – simple and symmetrical, its semi-circular portico reminded Waverly of the White House pictures she’d once seen in a book about the United States. When Hélène invited her to come to her _summer house_ , Waverly envisioned something entirely more humble and less… grandiose.

As they walked up the external staircase, Hélène addressed one of two maids waiting by the entry door with a butler, “Mademoiselle Earp will be staying in the Green Chamber. Run up and make sure she has a couple of bathing suits to select from – we’ll be spending the afternoon on the beach.”

“Yes, Madame,” the butler bowed and sent the maid off. “Will Mademoiselle Vivien be joining you today?”

“Yes, she’s right h…” Hélène turned around only to discover that Renée didn’t follow them from the motor-car. “She must have already taken off towards the beach,” she sounded peeved. “Inform the kitchen staff there will be seven of us for dinner tonight.”

The butler bowed again but Hélène’s attention was back on Waverly. “Let me show you inside,” she clapped her hands enthusiastically and directed Waverly by the elbow. The porter scurried past them, as Waverly futilely tried to grab her bag; _he was likely taking it upstairs for her_ , she reasoned, yet it did nothing to assuage her anxiety triggered by seeing someone rush off with her belongings.

Inside, an elaborate brown tilework covered the floors, marble columns supported high ceilings, while the walls were either covered with intricately carved wood panels or with stone slabs. Hélène rattled on about the history and the architecture of the villa as well as the purpose of each room they passed, yet – dazed and overwhelmed – Waverly paid only half the attention to what she was saying.

As they arrived upstairs, Hélène opened the second door on the left, “This will be your bedroom. Meet us on the beach when you’re ready – it’s just down through the gardens.” With one last toothy grin, Hélène was gone.

Waverly looked around, blinking in surprise – three different bathing suits laid on a large, four-poster bed, while her bag was placed on a bench at its feet. How did the staff manage to do that so quickly? They had _just_ arrived.

The shrieking of seagulls brought Waverly’s attention to a large floor-to-ceiling window, which stood open, letting a pleasant salty breeze in. She walked up to it and peeked through the sheer curtains only to be met with the most spectacular view she’d ever seen; upon their arrival, Waverly wondered briefly how far the villa was from the Mediterranean – looking through the window, she had her answer, as not far from the villa’s gardens, the deep azure spread for kilometers on end. Turning right, Waverly could see the green mountainous tip of the French Riviera protruding into the sea. The sun high on the horizon made all the colors more vivid, more brilliant – the view was nothing like the gloomy English Channel Waverly saw crossing to France.

Minutes passed before Waverly snapped out of it and turned away from the window. She walked to the bed to examine the bathing suits – Hélène did request that she changed, after all. Two double suits, with sleeveless tops and knee-long drawers embellished with frills, as well as a simpler one-piece tank-suit Waverly associated mostly with men’s swimwear, laid on the bed. None of the suits provided any respectable amount of modesty – _she might as well go out in her undergarments!_

Undressing quickly, Waverly put on one of the double suits – a red one with white frills, whose top reached below her hips. Looking at herself in a tall wardrobe mirror, she frowned and grabbed her shoulders, crossing her arms reflexively. With bare legs, from the knee to her feet, and exposed shoulders, Waverly felt _naked,_ undressed. Under no circumstances would she walk out of this room half-nude, passing who knows whom on her way through the villa and the gardens! Plus, Hélène mentioned _seven_ people dining here tonight – not counting herself, that meant  _six_ people in whose company Waverly certainly didn’t feel like being half-naked.

After long minutes of deliberation, not intending to offend Hélène yet feeling utterly uncomfortable in the bathing suit, Waverly decided to change back into her dress. Disconcerted and worried, she walked down the staircase and found her way through the gardens, following the increasingly louder hum of the waves, towards the beach. With the greenest lush grass she’s ever seen, tall palm trees, and luxuriant plants and bushes, the garden was spectacular in its own right – with her newly discovered appreciation for nature, Waverly wished she was less anxious so that she could enjoy and revel in it more fully.

The beach was even more breathtaking up close, yet as she took a few steps forward, Waverly scowled at how difficult it was to walk through the fine sand. Feeling like a witch traversing through the Irish peat bogs, Waverly tried to appear to walk nonchalantly but she felt increasingly more ridiculous in her heeled boots.

As she walked towards a set of lounge chairs, Waverly spotted three people playing beachball. She recognized Hélène and Camille; facing her, both women were wearing two-piece bathing suits, similar to the one Waverly tried on in the bedroom. The third person had their back turned to Waverly, but the short wavy red hair betrayed her immediately – it was Nicole.

Waverly slowed her steps and took the time to appreciate the view – _and what a view it was!_ Nicole was sporting a simple navy-blue tank-suit; her calves and shoulders were left exposed. If Waverly had thought that a one-piece bathing suit was masculine before, she sure was proven wrong in this instant. The form-fitting tank-suit left little to the imagination – Nicole’s shapely curves and her supple muscles presented a very enticing spectacle. Engaged in the ball game, her biceps, glutes, and thighs flexed hypnotically. Waverly could feel her face burn bright red and her mouth get parched – there was no way she would survive the next five days without spontaneously combusting, not in this company.

Stopping by one of the lounge chairs, Waverly noticed Renée reading a book, protected from the sunrays by a pair of dark sunglasses and a massive umbrella – she was still dressed in black slacks and a gray button-up shirt she’d arrived in, making Waverly feel marginally more at ease with wearing her dress to the beach.

“Waverly? Is that you, dear? Oh, what a pleasant surprise!” Camille stopped the game to greet her, causing Nicole to turn and look at her as well. With a nod, she sent Waverly one of her charming dimpled grins.

“Why didn’t you mention that you brought Waverly with you from the city, Hélène?”

“Oh, hush Camille. I’ve invited Waverly to celebrate – it’s a surprise, though, and I’ll wait for Natalie and Lily to get here around dinner time to share the news with everyone.”

If Waverly’s cheeks weren’t already burning, she was sure she would have blushed at Hélène’s comment.

“Natalie is coming and you didn’t even think of telling me that?!” Waverly turned to see Renée get up hastily from her chair, abandoning the book in the sand. “You know how she gets around me! I don’t understand why you insist on inviting her over. What is this? Some twisted way for you to stake your claim on me over and over again?!”

“Calm down, Renée. It’s really not a big deal. They’ll be here only for a couple of days so I really didn’t think to…” Hélène’s condescending tone was halted by Renée grabbing her shoes and walking off in the direction of the villa.

“Oh, I see. Are you in one of your moods? Go take a few of your knockout drops – that should calm you down!” Hélène shouted at Renée’s retreating back.

Looking at the sudden squabble with large eyes, Waverly didn’t entirely follow what it was all about. She only hoped it wasn’t because of her arrival at the villa.

Camille placed a placating hand on Hélène’s shoulder. “Now, Hélène, let’s be reasonable. The poor girl barely just got off those dreadful drops – why do you have to antagonize her so?”

“Agh. I swear she’ll drive me insane one day. It’s like living with a child!”Hélène rubbed her face in irritation.

“Perhaps, but try to see her perspective as well. Even though they haven’t been together for year, Natalie is still persistently trying to win Renée back. It can’t be a pleasant feeling.” Camille applied the tiniest of pressure to Hélène’s lower back and steered her towards the house, “Let’s see if we can smooth things over.”

The duo left the beach, talking in hushed voices. Waverly caught Nicole rolling her eyes in a fond exasperation – even though the fight seemed upsetting to Waverly, it must have been a common enough occurrence.

Grabbing the ball under her arm, Nicole jogged towards her. “Hi.”

“Hey,” inexplicably, Waverly made a little waving gesture with her hand, as if Nicole was standing meters away and not right in front of her. She blamed all this _skin on display_ for temporarily deranging her brain functions.

Nicole poured a glass of water from a pitcher placed on a short foldable table and took a large gulp. Mesmerized, Waverly watched as her throat swallowed the cooled liquid.

“Excuse my rudeness,” Nicole laughed and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Would you like some?” mistaking Waverly’s staring for thirst, Nicole offered.

“No, thank you.” She was, in fact, parched – just not for water. Trying to break the awkward silence that ascended upon them, Waverly added, “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“That makes us even, I suppose,” Nicole winked. “No, I uhm… After you helped with the explosives, I wanted to get out of town for a few days. It was just a lucky coincidence that Hélène invited me over.”

Waverly nodded in response.

Throwing a beach towel over her shoulder, Nicole offered, “I guess that’s it for beach time today and I’m sure you must be exhausted, if you’ve just arrived with Hélène. Let me walk you back to the house.”

They didn’t even make five steps, when Nicole smiled seeing Waverly labor against the sand, “Take off your shoes – it will help with balancing. Something about the surface area of the bottom of your foot – Irène explained it to me once.”

Gauging the distance left in the sandy hell until the safety of the grassy gardens, Waverly had to agree that it was not worth the struggle. She looked around and decided to take a few steps back to the lounge chair vacated by Renée. Not a step away from her destination, Waverly’s foot – trapped in a high laced boot – twisted in an unexpectedly soft pile of sand, sending her into a _certain_ tumble.

 _Certain_ , that is, if it wasn’t for Nicole’s fast reflexes, “Woah there. Careful.” Supporting Waverly by the elbows, she eased her down onto the nearby chair and in one smooth motion dropped to her knees in the soft sand. “You had more poise on ice. Let me help you with these,” Nicole teased, unlacing her boots.

Reclining slightly on the palms of her hands, Waverly was stunted into a silent submission and watched as both of her boots were swiftly removed from her feet. No one has ever taken her shoes off – at least not since she was but a child.

The task completed, Nicole kept Waverly’s right foot in her hand for a split second and met her eyes. A memory of a very similar position they had found themselves in rushed through Waverly’s mind. She blinked rapidly. Judging from a gorgeous blush that spread like the Great Fire of London from Nicole’s cheeks to her chest, Waverly wasn’t alone in recalling that particular memory.

Clearing her throat awkwardly, Nicole let go of her foot abruptly and got back up. “There. This should help.”

And indeed, it did. It was such a small thing yet it made Waverly peculiarly happy. “Thank you,” she whispered, with a radiant smile.

They made their way back to the villa, Nicole making a polite conversation about her drive to the coast with Hélène.

“That’s me,” Waverly pointed at the door at the top of the stairs. They were both still barefoot and it was one of the most unexpected pleasures to walk on cool tiles without your shoes on.

Nicole nodded, “You’ll have just enough time to take a long relaxing bath before dinner time.”

“A bath?”

“Yeah. Just ask the maid to draw you one.”

Waverly looked around. Where would she even _find_ a maid around here?

Apparently sensing her doubts, Nicole smiles sweetly. “May I?” she indicated Waverly’s door.

“Sure?”

Walking inside, Nicole pulled a rope hanging by the bed. “It connects with the servants’ quarters,” she explained.

They stood in silence for what seemed like an hour, Nicole still holding the ball under her arm, a towel thrown over her shoulder, while Waverly was rooted to the spot by the door, her boots dangling by the shoelaces from her hand. Seeing Nicole in that ridiculously skimpy tank-suit in the middle of the room, right by a bed, felt nice – it felt warm and domestic and tranquil. It felt _right_.

Nicole examined her curiously but before Waverly could do something about this burgeoning fiery feeling in her chest, a young maid appeared right behind her.

“Mademoiselle?”

“Can you please draw a bath for Mademoiselle Earp? And add a few drops of lavender oil to it,” Nicole stepped in before Waverly even had a chance to fully turn around.

“Of course,” the maid scurried past her and through what turned out to be a perfectly concealed side door.

Waverly took a few steps towards the newly discovered passage to find a _whole_ _other room_ hidden inside, with the largest tub she has ever seen – Waverly couldn’t be certain from this angle but she guessed she might be able to lay down fully and barely touch the end of it with her toes. She vaguely felt her jaw slacken in awe.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Nicole sent her a gentle smile on her way out. Waverly was immensely grateful that she could expect only kindness from Nicole – never ridicule, never derision.

~

Letting the tide tickle her feet, Waverly strolled down the beach lit by a silver glow of the full moon. Not one to make the same mistake twice, she’d left her boots by the exit gate from Hélène’s gardens. After the excitements of today, Waverly needed to get out and clear her head. Having so many people celebrate her accomplishments over dinner was overwhelming and unexpected – she couldn’t believe she had accidentally found friends who cared about her work to such a great extent, even if they didn’t fully understand it.

Waverly’s ruminations were interrupted by Nicole catching up with her, “Ah, there you are. The dinner was too hectic and I wanted to congratulate you in person. I wish Hélène had told me beforehand – I would have gotten you a celebratory gift.”

“Oh, that would have been entirely unnecessary. I really played just a small part in the discovery.” Waverly wrung her hands to calm her anxiety.

They kept walking at a leisurely pace towards the moon that hung low over the horizon.

“You shouldn’t say that. Marie has been trying to isolate pure radium for several years now! I know how much that weighed on her. I’m proud of you, Waverly,” Nicole bumped her shoulder in a playful gesture.

Feeling a fervid warmth spread inside her chest, yet knowing she didn’t deserve the praise, Waverly tried to explain it to Nicole, “No, you see, I only suggested that we try electrolysis but everything _I_ tried, failed. It was Dr. Curie who decided to use a mercury cathode and who set up all the other experimental parameters to finally make it work. I really don’t deserve all the credit you and Hélène give me.”

Nicole shrugged, “I won’t pretend to understand everything you just said but know this – if it wasn’t for your initial contribution, Marie would still be chasing her tail.” When Waverly quietly pondered her words, looking at her feet, Nicole added, “Learn to accept credit and compliments where they’re due, Waverly.”           

Seeing how pointless it was to try to convince Nicole otherwise, yet knowing _deep down_ how insignificant, how banal, her contribution was, Waverly just nodded in acquiescence. Wanting to change the subject, she confessed, “I’ve never been to a beach before. It’s… nice… There is something calming about the hum of waves. Do you visit Hélène here often?”

“Not really, but I uhm…” Nicole stole a quick glance at Waverly. “My family owns a summer house in Nice, so I typically go there if I want to be on the beach. Or at least we _owned_ one – it belongs to my father’s family and I haven’t spoken with him since you so expertly exposed Svane. I’m not sure how much financial trouble he’s found himself in.”

“I’m sorry…” Waverly whispered. But also _wow_ , she thought, _how rich exactly was Nicole’s family?_

“Don’t be. I’m sure he’ll crawl to me if he needs assistance with the estate,” Nicole shrugged.

“Wow,” escaped Waverly’s lips in an awed whisper. _Did she say that out loud_? Judging by Nicole’s inquiring expression, she sure did. “I’m sorry… It’s just that… uhm…” She took a deep breath. “I expected Hélène to be wealthy – I guess it came with the territory, with her holding the title of a baroness and whatnot. And even then, all of this,” she vaguely gestured behind them in the direction of the villa, “was a bit much. But I never thought that you’re… I mean… You’re just so much less pretentious and… But the more I think about it – your _townhouse_ in Paris, a _villa_ in Nice… I don’t know…” Waverly rambled.

Placing gentle fingers on her elbow – not quite grabbing, just merely caressing it – Nicole chuckled, “It’s okay, Waverly. My family fortune is not a secret, but I prefer not to parade it around – although it defined much of my earlier life, I’m trying to make sure it doesn’t continue to influence me as much in the future.”

Waverly wanted to know how Nicole’s family came to that fortune – partly because she was curious, partly because she wanted to know everything there was to know about this captivating woman – but how would she even ask?

Thankfully, Nicole seemed to be in an open, unguarded mood tonight. “My great-great-granduncle was the last king of Poland, before the country was lost to the Partitions. King Stanisław August Poniatowski. He was quite a character,” she shook her head fondly, “never married and had a years-long affair with the Russian Empress Catherine the Great. He even proposed to her but she didn’t accept.”

“Is that what the _P_ in your initials stands for?” Waverly asked, remembering the note she received with the desk. “Poniatowski?” she tried to pronounce the name as close as possible to what it sounded like in Nicole’s mouth.

Nicole slowed down and looked at her with… – well, in the dim light of the moon, Waverly wasn’t sure if it was awe, curiosity, or something entirely different. Nicole cleared her throat, “Yeah. It actually stands for _Poniatowska_ , which was my mother’s maiden name. Polish last names are gendered, so for women they end with an _-a_ instead of an _-i_.”

“It must be incredible to carry such an important part of a nation’s history with you.”

“That name is both a blessing and a curse. You see, King Stanisław was the seated monarch when the First Partition occurred and many people still put the blame on him – he opposed it but ultimately the power of the king at that time in Poland was so limited, he was unable to do anything about it. He even groveled and begged his past lover, Empress Catherine, to no avail.”

Sensing that it was a sensitive topic for Nicole, Waverly tried to ease the tension with a joke, “So I suppose you may have legitimate pretenses to the Polish throne, once the independence is restored, Princess Nicole?”

Nicole didn’t laugh. “Not really, but only because the Polish monarchy is not hereditary. Its electoral system was probably one of the first nuclei of a republican democracy in Europe. If the throne had remained hereditary though… I would technically become a pretender for the position of the _king_ , not a princess or a queen. Polish system is strange like that and one of our most famous monarchs – Queen Jadwiga – was technically crowned a _king_.”

Waverly blinked in surprise – she was trying to be funny but apparently it was something that Nicole seriously and thoroughly considered.

“The whole thing is a moot point at the moment – I hold a noble title from a country that hasn’t existed for over a century,” Nicole chuckled. “So enough about me. Do you have any convoluted family history you want to share?”

Still stunned and dumbfounded with the revelation of Nicole’s ancestry, Waverly stumbled, “I uhm… my family is not… well… they’re all gone.” It sounded much more sorrowful than she intended. “They’re not dead – or at least I don’t think they are,” she was quick to correct. “I mean, yeah, you already know about my father – he died in a factory accident when I was 14. But my mother left without a word when I was a child and both of my older sisters married and left as well – I was little but I think Willa moved to Ireland with her husband. I don’t really know where Wynonna went – she always was a free spirit.”

“I don’t have any siblings but I imagine it must have been hard to lose them both,” Nicole offered.

“Not really,” Waverly shrugged. “They were much older than me and we were never really close. I remember Wynonna better – she was closer to me in age and would bring me a piece of candy every Sunday. Willa though… Willa paid me no attention, almost as if I didn’t exist at all. She was the apple of our father’s eye and I remember that he took it really bad when she decided to marry and move away,” she shrugged again. She hasn’t thought about her sisters in years and the conversation brought back happy memories of running down the streets of London with Wynonna and hiding behind tall crates by the wharves. “There’s nothing extraordinary about my upbringing – just a poor family from London, like thousands of others.”

“Nothing extraordinary? Waverly, look how far you’ve made it and how many obstacles you had to overcome! If you ask me, everything about your life up to today is simply extraordinary. _You_ are extraordinary, Waverly!”

Waverly’s eyes filled with tears – happy tears, to be certain, but tears nonetheless.

~

It’s been three days since Waverly arrived in Cannes. Three days of watching Nicole chase a ball by the sea in a tight tank-suit. Three rambunctious dinners, observing Nicole charmingly flirt back with Lily de Gramont. Three nights of leisurely strolls on the beach in Nicole’s company, only to be left at the door to her bedroom, wanting, craving…

Waverly tried her best to flirt with Nicole as well, but she either was really bad at it or Nicole was just this oblivious and considered her attempts as nothing more but a friendly banter. She didn’t even want to consider a third option.

Tonight, she laid in her bed after dinner, pondering the advice she’d received from Hélène about Nicole’s insecurities. Fueled by a glass of red wine, Waverly decided to finally do something about the burning desire, about the flaming attraction between them. And if Nicole rejected her candid advances, then… Well… Having it resolved one way or another would have to be better than the torture of the past three days.

She got up quickly, put on her dress, and quietly left her bedroom, leaving her boots behind. Nicole’s room was just across the hall from her; Waverly knocked immediately after she’d arrived at the door, in case she lost her courage.

Nicole opened the door, wearing long form-fitting smallclothes and a loose white shirt – she didn’t appear to be sleeping yet, but her clothing suggested she was already prepared for bed.

“Waverly? Is everything all right?”

“Yeah. Yes,” she smiled sweetly. “May I come in?”

“Sure,” Nicole took a step back, allowing Waverly entrance. After a minute of silence, seeing that there clearly was something Waverly wanted to talk about, Nicole closed the door behind them and sat on the edge of her bed.

Waverly stood in the middle of the room, trying to calm her nerves. Looking at her feet, afraid to meet Nicole’s eyes, she jumped right in, abandoning all pretenses, “I know that I hurt you… And I know that there must still be a part of you that thinks that my interest in you is not genuine.” She stopped wringing her hands and took a deep breath. Unclasping the back of her dress, she let it drop off her shoulders and pool at her feet. Feeling subconscious and insecure in her two-piece undergarments, she crossed her arms over her chest involuntarily. All of Waverly’s previous sexual experiences were quick and concealed by dark rooms; she’d never stood half naked in a dim candle light in front of somebody she wanted, she’d never been the one to initiate things.

Finding the last vestige of courage, Waverly forced her eyes to look at Nicole. She was met with silence and a subtle frown – not exactly the response she’d expected.

She marched right on, regardless. “I wanted to show you how much you mean to me.”

Waverly swallowed heavily – it was now or never. Taking a few short steps, she climbed onto Nicole’s lap and connected their lips.

Feeling Nicole’s mouth pulled in a thin line, not responding to the kiss, Waverly started to pull back, rejected and crushed.

Perhaps she read the signals wrong, after all. Perhaps all Nicole really wanted was to be friends. Perhaps she’s lost her chance when she tattled about the worker’s gathering to Mr. Svane.

Before her brain had the time to go into a full panic mode, Nicole reciprocated the kiss. Cautiously at first, barely skimming Waverly’s lips, then harder, fuller, faster, Nicole was kissing her back.

Waverly felt two shaky hands land on her hips and she ground down on Nicole’s lap reflexively. She separated their lips but kept their foreheads connected. Breathing heavily, Waverly whispered, “Please, Nicole… Let me show you how much I want you… how much I need you.”

Searching her eyes, Nicole nodded minutely before attaching her mouth to Waverly’s neck. Gasping at the sensation and lightheaded in her lust, Waverly was certain her neck would be left with a bruise come morning – but that was the least of her concerns. She needed Nicole to take her, preferably soon, before she made any more mess in her smallclothes.

She rocked her hips forward again, hoping the woman underneath her would take a hint. Nicole nearly growled into her neck and moved one of the hands clasping her waist to caress her breast through the fabric of her chemise. The feeling of Nicole’s fingers brushing over her erect nipples was too much and simultaneously not enough.

Seeing how the subtle hints got her nowhere, Waverly decided to be braver and more brazen than she’d ever been in her life. She removed Nicole’s hand from her breast and moved it lower, past the elastic of her undergarments. Holding Nicole’s fingers directly over her drenched pussy, Waverly hummed in relief and heard the most sensual, astonished gasp escape Nicole’s lips in response.

She left Nicole’s hand to its own devices and framed her face to gently pull it away from her neck. Trying to focus her lust-clouded eyes on Nicole’s, Waverly whispered, “Can you feel what you do to me? Can you feel how wet you make me? It’s all for you, Nicole… Only for you…”

It seemed to be exactly what Nicole needed to hear in that instant to let go of whatever uncertainty she was still holding onto. Her face transformed from an awed, nearly innocent expression into something wild, animalistic, with a singular focus in sight. It made Waverly’s head spin and her body tremble in anticipation of what was to come.

Nicole untied her chemise expertly and peeled it over her head in one smooth motion. She kissed her again, all teeth and tongue, and before Waverly knew what was happening, she was lying flat on her back on Nicole’s bed.

Sharp, sudden inklings of insecurities and self-doubt flooded Waverly’s mind – she half turned to reach for the candle on the bedside table and to put it out.

“Leave it. I want to see you,” the words formed an undeniable command, yet Waverly heard a soft request in Nicole’s tone, saw an imploring plea in her eyes.

Making a split-second gut-twisting decision, Waverly laid back down and shut her eyes closed. The candle was left to illuminate their bodies.

Nicole settled over her exposed form, supporting herself on one elbow, and tilted her chin to brush their lips softly together. She moved to her neck, sucking the skin right behind her ear, causing Waverly’s body to shudder in response and temporarily forget all about her insecurities.

Moving down, Nicole licked her collarbone. Waverly felt a gentle hand explore her abdomen, skimming, rubbing, never staying in one spot for long, before it moved softly to cover her breast, kneading the pliant flesh there delicately. She made a strangled noise in the depth of her throat when Nicole rolled her nipple between her fingers. The simple yet unexpected action sent a fresh wave of arousal straight to Waverly’s core; she could vaguely feel her entire body tremble in need.

Nicole slid lower and encircled Waverly’s other nipple with her tongue, wet, soft, and warm at first, then flicking it with its sharp point. Waverly mewled incoherently in response. _What was happening to her_? She’s never had sex with a woman before but this was beyond her wildest dreams – and _oh, did she dream_ about this exact scenario numerous times before – and Nicole has barely even touched her yet.

Seeking any amount of friction, she arched her back, desperately grinding into Nicole’s abdomen. She felt Nicole smile against her nipple, releasing it in the process, and accidentally scraping her teeth against it. Waverly was glad one of them was enjoying this bloody torture! She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes to regain her composure and not drown in whatever dark magic Nicole had her under.

Feeling Nicole scramble towards the foot of the bed, Waverly panicked. God, what a perfect payback that would have been for her leaving Nicole in Dr. Curie’s shed months ago. She hastily opened her eyes and rose up on her elbows, only to discover Nicole settling between her legs.

“May I?” Nicole asked, barely touching the edges of her smallclothes. Relived, Waverly nodded frantically. Painfully slowly, Nicole removed the last piece of clothing off of Waverly’s body, causing her to blush uncontrollably.

Nicole’s heavy, heated gaze traveled across the exposed flesh. “Extraordinary,” she whispered reverently.

Waverly dropped her head against the pillow and blindly searched for Nicole to pull her up. She grasped at a soft fabric, frowning in surprise that Nicole’s shirt was still on, and tugged. Nicole acquiesced but only so – she stopped halfway up her body and settled down, nipping and nuzzling at the insides of her thighs.

God, she could probably _see_ and _smell_ Waverly’s arousal from there – curiously, the thought was equally embarrassing as it was exciting and she couldn’t help but moan in response. Nicole parted Waverly’s folds with her fingertip and smeared her wetness.

 _God_ , _what was happening?_

Nicole’s hot, wet mouth met her core.

Oh. _Ohh…_

“Oh, god…”

Slow, deliberate, Nicole’s tongue dipped inside of her, only to retreat a second later and carry her arousal in languid, broad strokes around her folds. Waverly left hand tightened in Nicole’s shirt, while the other one found purchase in her hair. She was moaning uncontrollably now but she couldn’t find it in herself to care anymore.

_Yes._

When the flattened tongue ran over her clit, Waverly’s hips jerked involuntarily into Nicole’s mouth. The groan that Nicole breathed into her, sending vibrations through her pussy, assuaged Waverly’s temporary worry and embarrassment – she rolled her hips again, rubbing her core against Nicole’s mouth in a wanton abandon. Her boldness was awarded by Nicole abandoning her teasing and doubling her efforts; she licked, and sucked, and lapped at Waverly sloppily, like a woman dying of thirst.

_Yes. God, Nicole, yes._

Waverly felt a solitary finger circle her entrance without ever entering, teasing her with each passing strike, causing her inner walls to flutter wildly. The tightening of her abdominal muscles warned her of the fast approaching peak.

_Yes, right there._

With the remainder of willpower, Waverly forced her eyes to open and look at Nicole, to seek that one more connection before the orgasm wrecked her body. She shouldn’t be surprised to find Nicole’s gaze on her already, glassed over with lust yet still watching her every response, every expression.

“Yes, Nicole. Please don’t stop.”

The heady eye contact coincided with Nicole gently scraping her teeth over Waverly’s clit, sending her careening towards an explosive orgasm; she felt her inner walls clench and a fresh rush of wetness rush of out her core into Nicole’s eager, waiting mouth. She covered her own lips with her palm to prevent the groans and screams that built deep in her chest from vocalizing. Her body shattered and jerked before she was too spent to move.

After a few long minutes, she registered Nicole lying flat on her back next to her, panting raggedly. The heavy breathing that would be considered nothing but labored in most other scenarios, shot a fresh wave of arousal through Waverly’s core. She'd  _just_ climaxed – how was this still happening?

Waverly forced her leaden muscles to move, as she turned to her side and supported her head in a palm of her left hand. She was now glad for the soft, flickering candle light. Nicole looked beautiful like that – eyes closed, cheeks flushed, chest rising rhythmically. With an overwhelming need to make Nicole feel as desired, as wanted, as she did minutes ago, Waverly let her other hand tiptoe down her shirt, undoing one button after another.

Covering her face with her arm, Nicole’s breath hitched when Waverly parted her shirt and caressed the exposed body underneath. She’s dreamed of Nicole’s breast, of the way the heavy flesh felt in her hand, since the first time she’d experienced it. Her nipples looked painfully pebbled and Waverly tested her response to having them be stroked, rolled, and twisted, watching Nicole’s face – or rather what was visible of it from underneath her elbow – carefully.

Nicole hummed appreciatively. Encouraged and hungry for more, Waverly settled on top of her and licked the other breast tentatively. As she closed her lips over the nipple, Nicole moaned and jolted her hips. She removed the arm from her face to look at her.

“Waverly…” It sounded partially like a warning, partially like a plea.

Waverly waited for more, searching Nicole’s face for any signs of discomfort. What she read instead was a burning arousal and a raw need.

Trying to be as smooth as Nicole was – yet failing miserably as her elbow dug into Nicole’s thigh and she nearly lost her balance halfway down – Waverly shimmied down Nicole’s body and removed her tights.

The sight was stunning, mesmerizing. Nicole was soaked and glistering in the candle light, her folds were swollen, begging to be touched, to be worshiped. Waverly felt her inner muscle twitch in sympathy and renewed need. Her mouth watered.

“You don’t have to do this,” a chocked-out whisper and a soft hand on her shoulder stopped Waverly’s descend.

Of course she _didn’t have to_ do this but couldn’t Nicole see how much she _wanted_ to? Puzzled, she looked at Nicole’s face troubled with apprehension. Was this Nicole’s past coming back to haunt her in this precious moment? Did her previous lovers only take, without giving anything in return? Waverly’s heart broke at the thought that this beautiful woman had perhaps never been cherished like she’s deserved to.

She covered Nicole’s body with her own, enclosing her face in her palms. Nicole nuzzled into her hand, seemingly embarrassed yet still seeking close contact.

“Hey, look at me.” When large brown eyes met hers with something akin to dread swimming in them, Waverly whispered, “I want you. I want to feel you, I want to love you, I want to… to touch you… but only if it’s something that you want as well. Okay?”

Nicole’s eyes filled with tears. Instead of responding verbally, she took Waverly’s hand and pulled it down her body. Since Waverly was wedged on top of Nicole, she wiggled and tried to lift her weight off – her breath hitched as her pussy accidentally slid against Nicole’s. The angle was awkward but they were both soaked enough that it didn’t matter – Waverly repeated the motion several more time, groaning at the sensation of her clit rubbing against the heated, swollen, wet flesh.

Lost in the heady feeling, Waverly only stopped when she heard soft whimpers from beneath her. Stradling Nicole’s thigh, she repositioned her body to try to focus on Nicole’s need. She was surprised when Nicole grabbed her hand and sucked two of her fingers into her mouth, lapping her tongue against them sensually – Waverly almost came at the unexpected sensation.

She wanted to explore more, to learn all there was to learn about Nicole’s body and what lit it afire, but she could clearly see the state of desperation Nicole was in. Fumbling and not entirely sure what she was doing, Waverly moved the wet fingers to Nicole’s opening and entered her without any further delay. If Nicole’s mouth felt good wrapped around her fingers, her pussy felt electric. Waverly could feel her muscles fluttering around her as she stroked exploratorily – Nicole seemed to like deep, slow thrusts and moaned loudly when Waverly curled her fingers against her front wall.

“Breath, Nicole. Breath,” she whispered, drunk on the power she wielded.

Nicole grabbed her hips and urged her to grind on her lap. With any other person, Waverly would have felt self-conscious to leave a wet trail of arousal on their thigh. With Nicole, she felt safe to do whatever brought pleasure to them both in the moment.

Engulfed in Nicole’s wet heat and stimulated by a steady brush of her thigh, Waverly felt her second orgasm approaching rapidly.

Nicole’s head was thrown to the side in ecstasy and Waverly was nearly certain that the woman was as close as she was. “Nicole,” she drew her attention. “Come with me. Come with me, Nicole.”

She gushed all over Nicole’s thigh and stuttered in her thrusts.

Luckily, almost at the same moment, Nicole pulsed around her fingers and screamed her name into the ceiling. Waverly collapsed on top of her, still moving inside languidly, reveling in the feeling of ripples and shudders wrecking Nicole’s body.

 _Maybe Wednesdays weren’t that bad after all_ , she thought to herself sleepily.

Waverly had the presence of mind to cover their entwined naked bodies carelessly with a duvet, before a deep sleep swept them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No history lesson today because let’s be real – who cares about the affair between King Stanisław and Empress Catherine after what just transpired between Nicole and Waverly.


	11. September, 1907

_ September, 1907 _

“She _left_ you?”

Passing a folded piece of paper she was clutching, to Nicole, Hélène nodded despondently. She was collected, yet somehow appeared smaller, as if a part of her that filled every room to the brim had left with Renée. 

The early afternoon sun entering through the south-facing windows of Nicole’s salon provided plenty of natural light to read by. She unfolded the note and – distractedly noticing speckles of dust dancing in the sunlight beams – read, 

_Your strange hair, cold light,_

_Has pale glows and blond dullness;_

_Your gaze has the blue of ether and waves;_

_Your gown has the chill of the breeze and the woods._

_I burn the whiteness of your fingers with kisses._

_The night air spreads the dust from many worlds._

_Still I don’t know anymore, in the heart of those deep nights,_

_How to see you with the passion of yesterday._

_The moon grazed you with a slanted glow…_

_It was terrible, like prophetic lightning_

_Revealing the hideous below your beauty._

_I saw – as one sees a flower fade –_

_On your mouth, like summer auroras,_

_The withered smile of an old whore._

_-Renée._  

“Harsh. But is it true?”

“Yeah, well, I knew that she left Natalie because of her stance on monogamy so I tried to keep my dalliances to a minimum… And I don’t exactly share the same sophisticated way of blaming women’s secondary status in society on the current sexual system and the jealousy, possessiveness, and exclusivity derived from it – but Natalie has a point in saying that relationships should be based on mutual independence.” 

Looking at Nicole’s unimpressed expression, Hélène bent over and placed her face in the palms of her hands. “Don’t give me that look, kid. You would understand if you saw the girl – pale complexion, bright blonde hair, icy blue eyes. She’s a daughter of a Russian count who owns a summer villa in Cannes. I didn’t stand a chance.”

Shaking her head in disapproval, Nicole asked, “Do you love Renée?”

“Of course I do! But love should never be constrained by fidelity.”

“To the contrary – love _means_ fidelity,” after everything that transpired between Shae and her, Nicole was certain of her words. “At a minimum, you owed Renéethe truth – relationships that aren’t rooted in trust are destined to topple over.” If Hélène was with someone like Natalie, someone who didn’t need monogamy to feel loved, someone who would be equally allowed and interested in secondary exploits, they could be open and trust each other – as it was, Hélène understood very well that Renée’s made fidelity one of the most important requirements in their relationship and she still decided to be unfaithful.

“Is _your_ relationship rooted in trust?” Hélène challenged.

“My _relationship_? Don’t… don’t change the subject, Hélène.”

“The _subject_ has been depleted, wouldn’t you agree? I admit that you have a point and I’m sure that with a bit of groveling and carefully placed promises, Renée will be back,” she waved her hand dismissively. “I’m more curious to learn about you and Waverly after you pretty much boarded up in the bedroom at my villa for two whole days.” 

“Two days and three nights,” Nicole whispered dreamily, her mind taking her involuntarily back to the most incredible, sensual experience of her life. She would have never suspected, not even in her wildest dreams, that Waverly would be so open, so free, so exploratory in her sexuality.

Hélène laughed, utterly delighted, and straightened up almost to her typical imposing posture. “Oh, how I admire your ability to still experience that sort of naïve puppy love, kid! I confess that I was surprised to find you alone today – would have guessed the two of you lovebirds would be inseparable for the time being,” Hélène teased. 

Nicole recognized the hurt hidden behind Hélène’s playful words – she did, after all, isolate herself from her friends when she became involved with Shae. “It’s not like that, Hélène. And I give you the full authority to knock it out of me if I ever get lost in another person to that extent again.”

Hélène frowned. “You’re clearly head over heels with this girl – I hope you had the presence of mind to talk it all out between the _vigorous activities_ we all unwillingly overheard in Cannes?”

Blushing furiously, Nicole evaded her eyes and cleared her throat, “Uhm, I mean… I was going to talk to Waverly on the last day but that stupid telegraph from my father made me leave in the early hours of the morning before I even had a chance to say goodbye. And now?... I don’t know where we stand.” She was rambling now, her mind taking her on a tour through random turns, intersections, and roundabouts. “Marie tells me that Waverly’s been busy in the lab – I haven’t seen her in over a week since I don’t want to accost her at work but I also don’t know where she’s staying these days. I’m sure she must have moved after she received the scholarship… What if it was nothing more but a quick fling by the sea for her? And now that we’re back in the city, she won’t have anything to do with me?”

Hélène looked at her solemnly. “It doesn’t cease to amaze me how one person can simultaneously embody so much confidence and insecurity as you do, kid.” After a pause, she sighed and added, “Waverly is not Shae.”

“I know, I know…” Nicole rubbed her forehead, trying to focus her thoughts. “It doesn’t make it any less terrifying… I look around myself and see only broken hearts – Renée just left you, Lily suffers Natalie’s infidelities in agonizing silence, Pierre got killed in a freak accident, leaving Marie baffled and sorrowful. Is it worth the risk? I feel like I’m running towards a cliff, terrified of jumping…”

Her jumbled thoughts were interrupted by Hélène, “Well, if it’s right, you don’t think about the cliff, because you’re sure when you reach the edge, you’ll fly. Love is anything but simple, kid, but it’s worth every bit of despair it brings with it. Ask Marie if – given the chance to go back – if she’d choose not to meet and fall in love with Pierre all over again, knowing how abruptly his life would be taken away.” 

Nicole knew that Hélène was right. She knew she didn’t stand a chance. Knew that the next opportunity she had –regardless of her fears, of her insecurities –she’d drop to Waverly’s feet and ask her to be in her life in whatever capacity the woman would allow.

~

The following Saturday, sat next to Ève on the floor of Marie’s home study, Nicole was coloring a piece of scrap paper covered with chemical equations. She had received a piece of news this morning that provided her with a perfect excuse to finally seek Waverly out. Marie was just finishing breakfast and Nicole was committed to subtly obtain Waverly’s new address from her.

“Good morning, Nicole.” 

“Marie! Hi!” _Cool it with the excitement, Haught._

“I see that your project was successful,” Marie said, tossing a newspaper on the floor next to Nicole’s leg.

Brows pulled together in consternation, Nicole asked, “Huh?”

“Page 4,” sitting down at her desk, Marie responded.

Nicole grabbed the paper and flipped through the pages. The article title read, “The Most Audacious Train Robbery in the History of Europe. The Tsar Left Fuming.”

She stole a quick glance at Ève, coloring peacefully with her tongue bit in concentration, before turning to Marie. As always, her expression divulged nothing, as she looked down at Nicole from above the glasses she let slide down her nose, yet Nicole could sense a dense storm building underneath. Thinking quickly of a reason to send Ève away, Nicole braced herself for an argument.

“How did you know?” she asked carefully.

“Nicole, dear, of course I knew about your activities in our old shed. Do not take me for a fool.”

Flabbergasted and confused, Nicole swallowed harshly, wondering why Marie hadn’t attempted to stop her. 

Sighing deeply, her friend lowered her voice, “I am proud of you, Nicole, for finally using your brain instead of relying on your money for everything. I am proud that you did not allow your loyalty to the Polish cause to drive you blindly.”

“So, you… you approve?” Nicole couldn’t believe her ears. 

Marie smiled one of her rare warm smiles. “To be sure, this was a daring undertaking. But – if I am correct in my assumptions of who directed the operation – I am certain he will use the funds wisely. As you well know, I do not believe that we have a chance of regaining the independence through a solitary uprising – yet, if a continental war is brewing, like so many seem to believe, we need to be ready to use it to our benefit.” 

Relieved, Nicole smiled back at Marie. “I couldn’t agree more. They already have an outline of an organization.”

“I see that _someone_ had a good influence on your reasoning skills. Could that _someone_ be a certain young lady currently employed in my laboratories?”

Even a vague mention of Waverly had the power to send Nicole’s mind on a dreamy wander these days. She smiled dumbly.

Marie chuckled – a sound Nicole has never heard escape the lips of a typically stoic and reserved woman. “Don’t think of blue almonds, Nicole – go and see Waverly instead. She has a day off.”

“I would but I… uhm… Do you know her new address?” 

“New address?”

“Yes, well, I assumed she moved after receiving the scholarship…” 

“No,” Maire shook her head. “As far as I know, she’s still at rue de Venise.” 

“Oh.” Nicole was baffled why Waverly would still choose to stay at those ghastly accommodations.

“Way’rly? Can I come, A’nt Nicole?” Even if she appeared to be focused on the coloring, Ève still paid attention to their conversation.

Nicole ruffled Ève’s floppy hair. “Maybe next time, ladybug.”

~ 

The staircase was as fetid and repugnant as Nicole remembered it. Knocking at a second-floor door, she distractedly noticed speckles of yellowish paint flake off with each rap of her knuckles.

The door creaked ajar and Waverly’s head appeared in the opening, “Nicole? Hi.” She moved to the side to let her in, subtly straightening and dusting her dress.

The room looked almost as Nicole recalled. _Almost_. Against the only window stood a simple desk, covered to the brim with papers, notes, and books – the desk that Nicole had gifted Waverly months ago. Seeing it so well-used made Nicole’s heart swell and her chest constrict with joy.

“Why do you still live here? I figured you could afford better accommodations with the scholarship.” It wasn’t the first thing she intended to say to Waverly after not seeing her for two weeks – it wasn’t even in the top ten things she wanted to say in that moment – but her inane brain fixated on the question since she’d left Marie’s. Perhaps it was in self-preservation, as obsessing over Waverly and what they were to each other had already nearly driven her to insanity. 

Judging by Waverly’s surprised face, it wasn’t the opening she expected either. “Uhm… I’m…” She wrung her hands nervously and looked down at her feet. “The scholarship is temporary. It is more prudent for me to save money for harsher times than to spend it on unnecessary comforts now.” 

Nicole had to bit her tongue, as her traitorous brain conveyed to it an invitation for Waverly to move in with her. It was true that she had multiple guest bedrooms, some on completely different floors than her quarters, so they wouldn’t even have to see each other. No matter how she’d look at it though, it was too early in their relationship to take that step – it was too new, too fragile.

Assuming there even was a _relationship_ to be concerned about.

Concentrating on not oversharing, Nicole nodded dumbly and looked around again. To distract herself, she focused instead on identifying the musty, damp smell in the room. Mold – it must have been the smell of mold. When her eyes landed on Waverly again, Nicole immediately noticed her discomfort – she was still wringing her hands, her brows were pulled together in a frown, her head was slightly tilted to one side. 

The silence that enveloped them was heavy, thick… uncomfortable. It was nothing like the serene nights they’d spent together in Cannes – hell, it wasn’t even comparable to the ease and openness of the evenings they had spent talking on the beach. 

The quiet awkwardness continued.

Nicole prepared herself for the worst. She noted how Waverly hadn’t welcomed her with a kiss or even a hug. There was an undeniable distance between them again – both physical and emotional. Surely, any minute now Waverly would sigh and tell Nicole it was a mistake. Or that it was fun but nothing else would come of it. Or that she discovered that being with a woman was not something she was actually interested in.

“What are you doing here, Nicole?”

Right. The reason she came here. “Oh! I learned today that the train robbery worked – I thought you might want to know. They said the explosives worked flawlessly. Nobody got hurt in the explosions but one security guard was shot in the resulting fight. The papers say it was the most daring raid in the history of Europe and that more than 200,000 rubles were stolen. That’s something like 600,000 francs, Waverly! The people who orchestrated it are beyond themselves with joy at how far this money will take us!”

Nicole would have rambled on if it wasn’t for a pair of strong arms enveloping her waist and Waverly’s head resting on her chest. “I’m so happy for you,” Waverly mumbled against her shirt.

She inhaled deeply and allowed herself to get lost in the feeling. Being in Waverly’s arms felt warm and tender and right. Even in the middle of the shabby apartment, it felt like being home.

Embracing Waverly and holding her close to her chest, Nicole whispered, driven by the sudden courage of not having to look into the woman’s eyes, “Waverly, what are we?”

After a momentary silence, Waverly separated herself from Nicole’s chest to look at her. “Whatever you want us to be,” came an honest response. Nicole didn’t fail to notice how Waverly’s voice broke over the statement.

Confused, Nicole ventured, “I uhm… I haven’t seen you in two weeks and I guess I just assumed you were avoiding me…”

“Me? _You_ left Cannes at the crack of dawn. Hélène told me that you had some urgent business to attend to in Paris.” Waverly looked at her in astonishment. “If that isn’t the most obvious cold-shoulder…” 

She should have known that Hélène would not relay her message properly to Waverly. “ _Merde alors._ I’m so sorry, Waverly. My father telegraphed me that morning, saying that it was crucial I met with him that day. Turned out he finally realized he needed to ask me for help with the estate – nothing that couldn’t have waited a day or two.” Searching Waverly’s face, she whispered, “Please believe me that leaving you asleep, warm and soft, in that bed was profoundly difficult. I started missing you the minute I sat in my Type Y.” 

“I’ve missed your gigglemug as well,” Waverly beamed up at her. Nicole absolutely adored how Waverly would let British phrases and terms slip around her.

“May I kiss you?” came a bashful question from Waverly.

Instead of responding verbally, Nicole tilted Waverly’s chin and met her lips in a languid kiss. 

When they separated for breath, Nicole glanced at the bed behind Waverly, causing the woman to burst out laughing, “Nuh-uh, not so fast, cowboy. We need to talk first – I’m tired of constantly making mistakes and proceeding blindly forward. There is something I need to tell you…” 

Nicole didn’t let her finish. “Be with me, Waverly? I am madly in love with you.”

Waverly’s eyes filled with tears. She smiled bashfully, kissed her softly, and tugged her arm towards the bed. They sat sideways, facing each other.

“I’ve fallen for you too, Nicole. So bloody much, sometimes I don’t know how to contain the feeling in my chest. But there is something I need to tell you…”

Nicole’s head was spinning, her heart was racing, and her palms were sweaty. Did Waverly Earp just say she _loved_ her? She did, didn’t she? Nicole could feel her face stretching in a ridiculously dumb grin.

Waverly took her hand. _Focus Nicole._

“My appointment at Dr. Curie’s lab expires in January. And although she offered to extend the assistantship for another calendar year, I also received a letter inviting me to join Dr. Frederick Soddy’s facility on a three-year fellowship.” 

Nicole frowned, “That’s great, Waverly. Why are you telling me this now?” 

Running a trembling thumb over Nicole’s hand, Waverly looked her in the eye. “The facility in Scotland.” 

After a few short seconds of consideration, Nicole asked, “Is moving back to Great Britain something you want to do?” 

“It’s not so much about going back home – Glasgow will be probably as different for the Londoner in me as Paris was at first. It’s just that… Uhm… Dr. Soddy wants to direct my research into subatomic particles, which is wildly interesting. And… I am grateful for everything Dr. Curie has done for me but this seems like too great of an opportunity to pass…” 

“Okay…” Nicole still wasn’t sure what it had to do with the conversation they were just having. 

“Nicole… January is just a few short months away. I want to be honest with you because if we become too invested and then I have to leave – I wouldn’t want to do that to either one of us.”

It dawned on Nicole in that moment that Waverly was concerned about _their_ future – that she included Nicole in her life months from now. She couldn’t help but grin her most charming smile at the nervous, insecure girl next to her. God, she would give anything to be with Waverly and she’d spend the rest of her life proving to her that she meant it.

“Waverly… I know that going down this road is really important to you, and… and as long as you want me, I will be by your side.” 

Waverly’s brows pulled together in a temporary frown before her forehead smoothed over and her eyes lit up with excitement. “Yeah?” she asked hopefully.

“Yeah,” Nicole said with conviction. “Now, tell me about Glasgow and that Soddy guy. If the weather there is as ghastly as it is in London, we’ll have to look for some close-by sunny vacation spots.”

The smile that split Waverly’s face warmed the entire room. Nicole wasn’t naïve enough not to realize that there were a lot of obstacles in front of them, that they still had plenty to learn about each other in the few short months Waverly still had left in Paris. She silently vowed to spend every night by Waverly’s side so that when the time came, the decision to move to Glasgow would come as a given.

Still beaming, Waverly dived into a complicated soliloquy about the research opportunity. Nicole let her ramble, an adoring smile painting her face, yet still trying to follow and store all the questions she had for later.

~ The End ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To think of blue almonds – a Polish proverb. To daydream.
> 
> The train robbery really did happen and it involved 20 people, including 4 women and 3 future Polish Prime Ministers. Using dynamite, they opened the safes, running away with an equivalent of about $8M in today’s money. Their leader and a future First Marshal of Poland, Józef Piłsudski, used the money to build a military organization, which came in handy when the great war that he predicted finally came in 1914 (WWI).
> 
> Renée Vivien – born Pauline Mary Tarn, was a British poet. If you liked her poem in this chapter, it was titled “Your Strange Hair” and I highly recommend you look up some of her other work – it’s all unapologetically gay and lovely.   
> Renée spent numerous tumultuous years in a relationship with Natalie Clifford Barney but eventually left her due to Natalie’s stance on monogamy (which Natalie claimed strengthened the patriarchy and women’s lower status in the society). Shortly thereafter, Renée became involved with Hélène van Zuylen and they spent the subsequent five years together. It was actually Hélène who left Renée for another woman.  
> She was addicted to several substances, including alcohol and knockout drops (chloral hydrate - a sedative, which was commonly used for recreational purposes in the early 20th century, before being replaced by barbiturates). Because of substance abuse, she suffered from chronic gastritis and anorexia. She died at the age of 32, officially from pneumonia.   
> Renée was a close friend of Collette’s (another famous Parisian lesbian of the time), who penned her portrait. 
> 
> Here’s Renée (standing) with Natalie in 1900:  
> 


End file.
